Unimaginable: Volume 2
by All The Umbrellas In London
Summary: Three months after the rooftop showdown, Reilly and Grace take their search for new heroes global, while the remnants of Greenland's organisation fracture, and a new evil emerges. The thrilling sequel to Unimaginable: Volume 1. AU. OCs.
1. Three Months Past

**A/N:**_ Thanks for coming this far. If you keep reading, I hope you enjoy the world I have tried to create. Don't be put off by the fact that this is a sequel; it's a new story, with all new characters and all new plotlines, and reading Volume 1,not needed to understand this story. If you want to read Volume 1 for a bit of background, go right ahead (and, for the love of God, REVIEW!). If not, and you decide to keep going with this story, I am ecstatic. THANK YOU!!! And, as always REVIEW! I love reviews. It lets me know how I'm doing, and that people are reading._

_Also, keep watch for small stories that will supplement the action in the main story. These will be posted simultaneously with each new chapter, excluding this one. It should come out in a few days. It's called 'Recruiting Drive' and deals with a story from the Communist days of East Berlin, and the capture of a major character. It will be posted under 'Unimaginable: Volume 2 Companion'.__

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**_THREE MONTHS PAST__

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_ **

**KRISTEN McQUALTER  
****BERLIN, GERMANY

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**

Berlin was supposed to have been a completely rebuilt city, redesigned from the ground up following the Communist retreat in the early nineties. But nothing had happened in this part of the city, not yet. And it didn't look like anything would happen anytime soon. The local government looked upon the abandoned train yard as a waste of space, too costly to redevelop, too far gone to serve any real purpose.

The skyscrapers of the German capital's CBD towered in the distance, and the city lights gave off an ethereal glow that lit the skyline, blocking out the stars.

The train yard, however, was as dark as space itself.

Kristen McQualter was cold. And she had no idea what the hell she was doing in Europe, let alone what she was doing in Berlin, and the train yard where her boss had first been captured all those years ago, no less.

She sank back, against the rusting pile of metal that had once been a freight car, willing herself to sink into the shadows.

Bored, she lifted her right hand.

In the air, above the pale white skin of her palm, a strange bubble of purple light glimmered into existence, formed by rapidly coalescing energy particles.

Her thin, pale, angular, decidedly European features were briefly illuminated before she closed her hand, and the bubble disappeared, as rapidly as it had formed in the cold night air before her.

"McQualter?" came a quite voice from the shadows of another abandoned freight carriage across the way.

Kristen's head snapped up, her other hand falling to the gun at her waist. "Who's there?"

A woman appeared, stepping into the moonlight that was being cast across the train yard. She was aging, in her mid-fifties, her hair mid-length and wavy, greying slightly, so different to Kristen's own dead-straight obsidian-black locks. Her eyes, however, burned with intelligence. Kristen had no doubt the woman would have been quite attractive, and to some extent still was. She exuded calm and warmth, even in the freezing darkness of the train yard.

She certainly looked like Kristen's contact, but she couldn't be sure. There were, after all, ways of masking one's appearance. Kristen uttered the code phrase, the first line in Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. "The family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex."

The woman gave a faint smile, and replied. "They could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands." The last line of Sense and Sensibility. Perfect.

"Edith," Kristen said, stepping into the moonlight.

Her face was obscured mostly by the shadow given by the hood of her sweater, but a few errant strands of dark hair hung before her. She brushed them aside.

"Kristen," Edith answered, her accent European, but difficult to place. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. There's been someone following me recently. I had to make sure I wasn't—" A sound in the distance cut her off.

Both women turned, and Kristen's hand fell to her weapon.

"It's nothing," Kristen said. Her accent was definitively Australian; not broad, but recognisable. "But we should get out of here. I have jet waiting to take us—"

This time a mysterious noise cut off Kristen.

But it was a different noise, far louder, far closer. Like the dull bang of a car door being slammed. Or a train cargo hatch being rolled shut.

"C'mon," she said, pulling out the gun, and reached towards Edith, bundled thickly in cool-weather gear. She pulled the woman closer, and turned, turning them towards the gate out of the train yard, where her car waited.

Then the grinding started.

Kristen spun around, and saw a train, an old diesel engine it seemed, was moving towards them, the rims of its wheels sparking on the rusted tracks.

"Go!" Kristen shouted.

Edith turned to leave, but the train car was being pulled up, high, high above them by some invisible force, and began to hurtle towards them.

"Run!" Kristen roared, and Edith needed no urging. The woman bolted through the night towards the gate. Kristen stretched her hands towards the rapidly lowering engine, that appeared to be picking up speed as it came lower and lower.

The same mysterious mauve energy shimmered into existence in front of her, and a forcefield flared to life.

The diesel engine slammed into it, something inside exploded. The forcefield gave way, and Kristen was buffeted by an almost incomprehensible shockwave of heat that knocked her to the ground.

Pieces of the vehicle pitter-pattered to the weed-covered ground all around her, but she must have hit her head. She was tired, too tired. The world was slower growing darker and darker.

A woman appeared above her.

She was young, her long, wavy, perfectly set brown hair falling in just the right places on her shoulders. She leered down at Kristen, and gave a small, self-satisfied smile. Kristen noted the gold earrings, the diamond necklace, the red lipstick. And, joining her, now, was a tall, muscular blonde man.

Then, as the blackness closed in, the world disappeared.

* * *

**REILLY CARROLL & GRACE SCOTT  
****OUTSIDE ACCRA, GHANA

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**

For Reilly Carroll, the nightmares were coming less and less frequently. They were still there; he still feared sleeping, fearing what would come in the midst of his dreams. The darkness, the cold, all-consuming, utter, palpable terror that had engulfed him like a cold, wet, heavy, suffocating blanket.

At first, they had been the same, night after night.

Himself, running down the corridor, stumbling against the wall as the cold pushed in on him, as those dark, hateful thoughts filled his mind, as the shadow reared above him and as those hands reached towards him.

That's where the dream always ended.

In reality, that's where the experience had ended. A gunshot had rent the air, had saved him from the terrifying embrace of the darkness that would fall upon him.

The last time the dream had affected Reilly, he'd been in a Ghana hotel room, the air conditioning broken, the ceiling fan doing nothing to stave off the stifling heat. He was drenched in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, absolutely terrified.

It had been the worst since the night of the rooftop showdown, high above Los Angeles, three months before.

He'd sat up, quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, for pain blossomed behind the bridge of his nose, and he heard the blood pounding in his ears. There, across from him, sat Grace Scott, as serene and beautiful as ever, watching him with sympathy.

Now, here he was, hours later, the dust rising around their rented Jeep, a creaking, rumbling, rusted old thing from the age before catalytic converters and in-built radios. Instead, they had a portable swinging from the rear view mirror.

He drove, desperately trying to keep the SUV on the gravel road that had taken them out of the outskirts of the capital city of the African nation of Ghana, and would eventually take them to their destination, a compound in the heavily forested foothills of the nearby mountains.

The large, iron-rimmed wheels sent dust billowing up either side of the vehicle, and Reilly was finding it harder and harder to see through the grime-encrusted windscreen.

"Are you cool driving?" Grace said from beside him, obviously very amused at his concentration.

"Pipe down, wench," he shot back, in mock-rage.

Suddenly, bumping down the road, came an ancient truck, its rear overflowing with hay, crammed with Ghanaians on their way into Accra for a day at the markets.

Reilly brought the car to a stop as the cloud of dust following the truck passed over and swirled around the Jeep. It was at that moment that the radio decided to work, blaring an old Bob Marley song, before cutting out again.

"Damn," Reilly said, starting again, as the dust died down. In the distance, across the yellow, scrub-land of the plains, stood green mountains, staggering in their size, jagged knives thrusting from the earth into the perfect cerulean sky. "I hate this damn car."

"You said damn twice in the same sentence." Grace said, staring out the window as Reilly accelerated down the road. The dirt track, really. "It's a fairly nice place, though."

"It's gorgeous," Reilly answered. "As long as you don't have to drive."

"You want me to drive?" Grace asked, a look of exasperation on her face. "Because if you want to drive, then pull over and let me drive this thing!"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Why would I be kidding you?" Grace asked, voice rising.

"Great start to a round the world trip." Reilly growled, as the radio picked up again. This time, The Who. Baba O'Riley.

Grace crossed her arms, and sank back into her seat. Reilly knew there was a loose spring there, right in the small of her back. He hoped it was digging in, painfully. "Shut the hell up, and drive." She answered.

Reilly shifted gears, and the car rumbled onwards.

It was midday by the time they found what they were looking for.

The road began twisting towards a pass in the jagged mountains, and Reilly saw a letter box, seeming in the middle of nowhere on the embankment. Beside it was an old gate, and a barbed wire fence that stretched as far as the eye could see.

The gate was open, and Reilly knew, instantly, that this was the gateway to their destination.

He looked at his travelling companion, and Grace nodded.

He took the Jeep through the open fence, and down the equally dusty gravel road behind it. The road stretched in a straight line towards a larger fence, that ringed an overgrown copse of trees.

It took far longer to cover this distance than Reilly would have thought, but, finally, they arrived at the larger chain-link gate. Reilly noted, jutting from the thick, almost impenetrable canopy that covered the fenced off area, was a circular guard tower.

The gate's electric motors whirred, and it swung slowly open.

"I guess someone's expecting us," Grace said.

Reilly grunted in agreement, and accelerated through the gates. The world beyond was simply stunning. Verdant, vibrant green, overgrown trees and shrubs overflowing onto the dusty road. Flowering orchids, snaking up tree trunks. The very sunlight itself was green, filtering as it was through metres of leaves.

"Whoa," Grace said, and Reilly couldn't help agreeing. It was extraordinary. The land outside had been so dry, the highest plant-life being drought resistant shrubs and stubby little trees, with limited greenery.

This was simply overwhelming.

Reilly kept the car going, and slowly, they moved down the driveway, finally reaching a wide open space, just in front of a sprawling mansion, a house Reilly would have imagined on a homestead in South Africa.

It appeared abandoned.

No one stood, waiting for them on the veranda. No one in the bay windows looking out on the dusty parking area in front of the home. The house looked well-maintained, but just seemed… empty.

Reilly put the Jeep into park, and motioned to Grace.

She opened the glove box, and retrieved two guns, one a long, silver semi-automatic handgun, the other a small black six-shooter revolver. She handed the former to Reilly and kept the latter pressed against her midsection.

Reilly opened his door, and leapt out, taking the car keys with him, secreting them in a pocket on his jeans.

Grace got out on the other side, and the two met up at the other end of the car.

They turned towards the house, set before them, and took a few steps towards it. "It looks nice," Reilly said. "Creepy though."

Grace's jaw was set. She was on alert for something. "There are people in there."

"How many?"

"Just two," she said. "But I have a bad feeling."

There was a commotion, in the thick brush. Reilly jerked around, gun up, and Grace turned, too. Whatever it was had ended; the undergrowth just sat there, occasionally ruffled by a breeze.

"Reilly," came Grace's voice, unusually stern.

He turned, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the man on the previously deserted veranda.

He tall, broad, muscular. Powerful. And slightly intimidating. His skin was the colour of dried cocoa beans, and he watched them without moving, without speaking. And, as if to add to the effect, without seeming to breathe.

"Drop your weapons," he said, his accent thick, his tone harsh. Still, his voice had a warm, lyrical wilt.

Grace looked at Reilly, and nodded. Hers was already lying on the gravel.

He let the gun fall to the ground.

"We've been expecting you," the man said, stepping towards the steps leading up to the veranda.

"Who are you?" Reilly asked, cautiously.

"I am the guardian of this place," he answered. "Come."

With another look at Grace, Reilly led her up the

* * *

**AMY LAMOTTE  
****PARIS, FRANCE

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**

Her prey was close.

Amy Lamotte held her breath, leaning out of the open door of the third floor office of the Paris chateau, her sharp eyes gouging the darkness, searching for any sign of her quarry.

The distant lights of downtown Paris shown in through the large, many-paned windows of the chateau's uppermost floor.

The corridor was richly decorated; Napoleon-era furniture, thick, lush red carpet, paintings from the Renaissance era onwards and medieval tapestries adorning the walls, panelled with the finest oak, perhaps more expensive than the all the furniture and artwork put together.

The chateau was home to countless artistic treasures, but Amy's prey was after far more tangible goods; cash and untraceable bearer bonds to the tune of three million dollars.

Amy wasn't there to prevent the chateau's over-cashed nouveau riche occupants from being robbed. She wanted the thief, and her ability.

There, in the corridor, movement.

Amy's hand fell to her gun, and she slid the long, silver handgun from its holster, thumbing back the hammer. She lifted the weapon. Movement, again.

The corridor was dappled with moonlight, streaming in through the windows, but it was still difficult to see very far.

She was a beautiful woman, but her long, red-brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and coiled into a stocking. She was dressed in black; a black turtle-neck and tight-fitting black slacks.

"Hey!" Amy shouted.

The shadowed offender spun about, and Amy caught a glimpse of her.

She was slight, and exquisite; perfect, delicate European features, and wavy, mousy-brown hair falling unchecked on either side of her face. Stunning blue eyes. The next thing Amy saw was the dull glint of light reflecting off metal. A gun.

Amy's finger curled around the trigger of hers, but too late.

The woman fired.

The bullet slammed into Amy's gun, knocking it clean from her hand. She could only watch, dumbstruck, as it fell to the floor.

"You little bi—" Amy started, only to be cut off by another gunshot. Amy leapt aside, and heard the bullet chip part of the wall.

And then the woman was gone, running down the dark, moonlit corridor.

Amy hauled herself to her feet, and plunged headlong after the would-be thief. She swept her hand upwards, and an odd blue glow seemed to trail after it.

Her prey grunted as a burst of frost impacted her shoulder.

She seemed to go down, and Amy kept running, the glow now emanating from both hands. She reached the spot that she thought she saw her prey fall. There was nothing there. Amy dropped to her knees, feeling around in the dark. No trace of her.

"Freeze."

Amy looked up.

The woman was standing there, gun in hand, glaring down at Lamotte.

"Stand up. Slowly," she said, and with a jerk of her gun towards Amy's hand, before adding "and stop glowing."

Amy deactivated her power without a second thought, the glow instantly diminishing.

There was a sound from somewhere deep in the chateau. The woman jerked her head around, and Amy saw her chance. Flinging out her hand, she sent a full blast of her freezing ability at the woman.

A gunshot rang out.

Amy turned, towards the gunshot, to find the woman's exact duplicate standing behind her. Then the bullet him.

Amy's eyes widened, and her hands dropped to her midsection. She glanced down at them. Blood. Her knees gave way, and she fell to the thickly carpeted floor.

* * *

**BRENDAN WUNDERLICH  
****LOS ANGELES, CA**

* * *

Brendan Wunderlich was never entirely able to comprehend the enormity of the office he had inherited from his predecessor, until he had come to occupy it. The workspace was truly cavernous, and had been sparsely furnished, with really only the single, massive mahogany desk and a few padded office chairs across from his own high-backed leather one. 

He'd given it a little something, he thought, adding two couches facing each other over a coffee table, and bureau and filing cabinet against the wall. But, still, he had more space than he knew what do with.

The enormous floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Los Angeles merely added to this agoraphobic feeling.

But the office was remarkable. High-speed wireless internet, multiple direct phone lines. The table even had inbuilt mobile phone rechargers, hidden pop-up high definition computer and television LCD screens, and crystal clear satellite television capability.

In short, Louise Greenland, and the Greenland Corporation in general, had had some pretty impressive digs.

And now they were Brendan's. He was still uncomfortable in the suits, however, but he was growing accustomed to his newfound ability to go home at the end of every day. And his wife was already used to far better pay scale.

He glanced up at her silver-framed photograph on his desk, and smiled, already hungry for the dinner Lauren, his wife of four years, would have ready, in their Mexican ranch-style Simi Valley home. He turned back to his work however, and once again became absorbed in the new research status supports from the Mojave desert facility.

He looked up as his right-hand-woman entered the room. The tall, slender form of Erin Eedy walked towards him, a manila file in hand. She dropped it on his desk, and stood above him as he read it.

"Kristen McQualter still hasn't reported in," Erin said, as Brendan flicked through the pages. "And the pilot landed in LAX two hours ago. The package wasn't onboard. Should we send back up to Germany?"

Brendan read the file, the pilot's report.

"Kristen's always been trustworthy," he said, turning a page. "We'll give her until tomorrow to check in, but after that, I want to send someone I can trust."

Erin smiled, expectantly. "Me?"

Brendan winked. "You got it."

Erin nodded, and, retrieving the file, departed.

Brendan spun about in his chair, and folded his arms, looking out over Los Angeles. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a single, folded sheet of A4 paper. He opened it, and ran his finger over the woman's picture in the upper, left quadrant. The red-bordered sheet was used for one purpose only.

Identification of a rogue agent.

The woman in the photograph was Amy Lamotte.

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**OUTSIDE ACCRA, GHANA

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**

The house was an old colonial-era construction, a sprawling mansion that symbolised an older, grander, far more romantic Africa, free from the spectres of poverty and AIDS. The large bay windows gave exquisite views of the surrounding jungle, so lush and wet and green that it seemed to spill inside, and take over the house too.

The house, all the rooms Reilly and Grace got to see, as their tall, hulking guide lead them through the wide corridor, past the stairs to the upper level, and towards the rear of the house, were richly decorated, with a mix of colonial European and traditional African styles; tribal patterned-carpets, French-made coffee table, traditional statues, and a massive grand piano in one room, long, low couches on Persian rugs facing an immense fireplace in another.

The walls were adorned with tribal masks, and paintings by any number of European artists, both modern and historical.

The stair case was sweeping oak, the railing exquisitely carved.

Reilly drunk everything in as they passed, and, as they walked down a hallway that consisted only of closed doors, he moved closer to Grace, beginning to grow concerned that they had left their weapons outside.

A hand on his elbow told him not to worry.

Finally, they reached the end of the corridor, into a 1940s era kitchen, featuring ancient-looking appliances and the same eclectic but perfect balance of different art pieces as the rest of the house.

The man opened a door leading into a brilliantly lit room, and stepped aside, allowing them both inside.

Reilly saw that it wasn't an actual room; it was a glass house, sunlight streaming in from the hundreds of intricately patterned glass panes in the roof and walls of the structure. There were rows upon rows of metal shelves, each packed with potted plants, many completely overgrown, though they were all well cared for.

Their silent conductor led them around a particularly well-stocked set of shelves, featuring brilliantly coloured orchids, massive ferns and miniature bonsai trees.

There, sitting at a small, circular table, with a tiny, unhealthy looking pot plant in front of her, was an absolutely stunning woman. Her skin was very dark, the same shade as the man that had led Reilly and Grace through the house, and her long salt-and-pepper hair, kept back in a pony-tail, was set in dreadlocks.

She looked up at the two of them, and gave a soft, gentle, welcoming smile. "Welcome to Ghana. I'm Priscilla Adei-Cardwell, and this," she said, sweeping her hand over the pot plant, "is my home."

Reilly was about to answer, when something caught his eye.

The pot plant, brown and sick-looking, was coming to life before his eyes. The drooping stem straightened, the wilted leaves shifted, turning from brown to yellow to green, being joined by new, brilliantly emerald-green foliage.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the growing stopped. The plant was twice its original size.

Reilly and Grace could only turn, gaping, to the quite woman, who inclined her head, as though accepting their silent applause. "I hear you have some questions."


	2. The Fox

**A/N: **_The accompanying short story to this is called 'A Chance Meeting', and can be found under 'Unimaginable: Volume 2 Companion'._

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THE FOX

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**BRENDAN WUNDERLICH**** & ERIN EEDY  
****LOS ANGELES, CA

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**

Erin Eedy was so happy she practically bounced into Brendan Wunderlich's new office, the grin on her face wide enough to swallow his vast desk. He kept himself from looking up though, playing it cool. It infuriated Erin, and he needed no further reason to do it.

He kept reading the newest report from the Asian branch of his organisation; they'd found a young woman in Mumbai who was a Carrier of the Gene meaning she had the potential for an ability.

Finally, as Erin cleared her throat, he put the file aside, making a mental note to contact Reilly Carroll in relation to it.

He leant back in his chair, and looked at Erin, declining to speak first.

Giving in, Erin handed him another file. "We found Amy Lamotte."

Brendan's heart skipped a beat. Amy had been one of his most pressing priorities for the better part of four months. To have such an experienced, powerful agent go AWOL was a major blow to the organisation, struggling to stay alive following its founder's death. "Where?" he asked, sliding the file towards him.

"France," Erin answered. "She booked passage on a domestic flight to Marseilles. And one of our possibles got on a plane to Marseilles last night."

Possibles were people suspected of being Carriers, but who hadn't been tested, or hadn't manifested abilities, as the woman in Mumbai had.

"Which?" Brendan asked, flicking through the file, not bothering to read it. Erin had memorised it already, no doubt. She wanted Amy brought down as much as he did.

"Louisa Rietdijk. Born in Amsterdam, served in French secret service, currently living under alias 'The Fox' as a master cat burglar." Erin explained. "Unknown genetic status, unknown ability."

"Okay…" Brendan said, stretching the last syllable. "We'll assume they're together, or will be soon. Have one of our non-Carrier agents sent to Marseilles. I don't care about Rietdijk, but I want Lamotte dead."

Erin nodded. "Kristen still hasn't reported in."

"Then you had better get to LAX," Brendan said, and Erin turned to leave. "I'll have jet waiting for you by the time you get there."

**

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**

KRISTEN McQUALTER  
**BERLIN, GERMANY

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**

Kristen McQualter jerked awake. She was back in her hotel room, she realised with a start. The immaculately clean suite in one of Berlin's best hotels she had booked into… when?

She couldn't remember.

What had happened the night before?

She had a vague recollection of being cold, then of running. But what had happened after that? Where had she been? What had happened?

Why the hell was she even in this hotel? Why was she in Berlin, for that matter?

Something to do with an assignment, she thought. But she wasn't certain. She wasn't certain of much, really. Nothing that had happened in the last couple of days. She remembered leaving the U.S. on a jumbo from LAX. But that was it.

She sat up, and nearly collapsed into bed again; a migraine took hold, burning from between her eyes, sending her into waves of nausea.

"God damn," she hissed, and pulled herself out of bed, stumbling to the room's tiny _en suite_. She felt around on the vanity top, and found a small bottle of pills. She popped the lid, and dumped a pair in her hand.

She ran the tap, and threw the tablets into her mouth, leaning down to get a mouthful of the refreshingly cool water. She swallowed the pills, and slumped to the tiled floor, her head pounding. She hadn't realised until she had swallowed the water how truly thirsty she was.

Finally she blinked away the last traces of her migraine as the pills took effect, and she hauled herself to her feet. She was wearing a baggy t-shirt and track pants. Her usual sleep clothes.

She left the bathroom, and turned into the suite's living room/kitchenette. She walked over the fireplace, and reached up into the shaft stretching above it. There, amongst the soot and ash and debris, she found what she knew would been there. A brown paper parcel, packed with materials and documents related to her mission. She opened it, and emptied the contents on the floor.

A pile of paper fell to the ground, covering the plush hotel carpet.

Kristen threw the envelope around, and dropped to her knees. She shifted through the papers, including her passport and entry visa, finally finding the piece marked in bold letters 'URGENT'.

She turned it over.

It was blue bordered, indicating it was about a target, either a possible or confirmed Carrier, or a former or current agent seeking assistance and extraction. This featured a picture of an aging woman, a Hungarian native by the name of Edith Fesckes. Kristen's objectives were outlined at the bottom of the page. Meet this woman in a Berlin train yard, and take her to a waiting jet.

Had that happened? Maybe the meeting, but Kristen didn't remember what had happened after. Or before.

Another sheet caught her eye. Red-bordered, indicating a rogue agent, and a possible threat. Instantly, Amy Lamotte's name came to mind. She turned the page over. Instead of Amy Lamotte, the picture in the left-hand corner depicted a blonde man, tall and muscular.

"Julian Neave?" she said, surprised.

He'd always been faithful to the organisation, and Kristen could remember nothing of hearing about him going rogue. It would have all over the agency channels of communication for sure.

But then she remembered Julian's ability. Mental manipulation. He could erase entire sections of a person's memory, among other things.

Was that what had happened to her? Had her memories been taken by the blonde man? Her eyes narrowed, as a glimpse of memories she didn't know she had came to her. Julian, looking down at her with a look of clinical disdain.

When had that happened?

Then, it came to her. The night before. He'd been there, wherever there was, and now she was here, with no memories. A buzzing sounded through the room, and Kristen turned towards the source.

Her silver Sidekick lay on the coffee table.

She stood, and crossed to the table, stooping to pick up the phone. A message. She opened it. Her eyes flicked this way and that, quickly absorbing the message, and its implications. Erin Eedy was coming to Berlin. That could mean only one thing. Whatever she had been assigned to do, she had failed.

And, to make matters worse, she barely knew what she had failed at.

**

* * *

**

REILLY, GRACE & PRISCILLA ADEI-CARDWELL  
**OUTSIDE ACCRA, GHANA

* * *

**

The woman looked up at Reilly Carroll and Grace Scott, and gave a soft, gentle, welcoming smile. "Welcome to Ghana. I'm Priscilla Adei-Cardwell, and this," she said, sweeping her hand over the pot plant, "is my home."

Reilly was about to answer, when something caught his eye.

The pot plant, brown and sick-looking, was coming to life before his eyes. The drooping stem straightened, the wilted leaves shifted, turning from brown to yellow to green, being joined by new, brilliantly emerald-green foliage.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the growing stopped. The plant was twice its original size.

Reilly and Grace could only turn, gaping, to the quite woman, who inclined her head, as though accepting their silent applause. "I hear you have some questions."

"You could say that," Grace managed, not taking her eyes of the plant.

Cardwell spoke rapidly in what Reilly guessed from his limited instruction was Akan, one of Ghana's nine government-sponsored tribal languages, and the hulking black man that had led he and Grace to this greenhouse, clearly the inner sanctum if the woman before them, disappeared, sliding back into the main house.

Reilly watched him go, before turning back to Cardwell, who was returning the plant to one of dozens of over-stacked shelves, each covered in pot plants, all far too green, far too large.

The woman indicated to the small table she had sat at. There were three chairs there, and she took one, while Reilly and Grace took the others.

The man reappeared, carrying a tray decorated with a rich floral pattern. He set it on the table, and retreated into a corner. The tray was loaded with a china tea set; a steaming kettle, and three delicate-looking tea cups.

Cardwell poured a measure of strong black coffee into each cup.

She took a sip, and said "Let's get started, then, shall we?"

She had an odd accent, a mix of American, British, with a tinge that seemed similar to her guardian's.

Reilly nodded. "Do you know who we are?"

"I know why you are here, but not a lot about you," Cardwell admitted.

"I'm Reilly Carroll, and this is Grace Scott." Reilly said, indicated first himself, and then Grace, who inclined her head to Cardwell. "I was a genetics student at the University of California Berkeley, until I took a sabbatical just before I met Grace."

"I'm an empathic telepath," Grace said, tonelessly.

Cardwell shot her a wary look, but didn't miss a beat. "Brendan Wunderlich did send word about your coming. He did include your names, and your purpose, but nothing more. I am interested, Mister Carroll, and Miss Scott for that matter, in what exactly drew you into our world."

Reilly exchanged a look with Grace. Really, it had been the same thing that had brought them into this. "Mark Oakwood," Grace said for the both of them.

"Who?" Cardwell asked, clearly intrigued, not looking at Grace.

"Mark Oakwood," Grace repeated, her tone betraying her irritation at being ignored. "He was a world renowned geneticist, who speculated that humanity had taken the next step in its evolutionary process. He thought that some of us had developed superpowers. But you already know this."

"Are you reading my mind?" Cardwell shot back, harshly.

"No," Grace said, eyes narrowing. "Just your emotions. Everything I've said since we came in here, you knew already. You know exactly who Mark Oakwood is."

Cardwell sighed. "Excuse my defensiveness in regards to your ability, Miss Scott. My experiences with empathic telepaths have not been good."

"I'm not Cathy Chambers," Grace said, coolly.

"I know you're not," Cardwell said, but she still projected an aura of uncertainty in Grace's direction. "Please, go on."

"Oakwood was killed," Reilly went on. "In New York, almost five months ago. After that, Grace and I decided to try and find others with abilities. The first two we met were kidnapped by a group of four men. The third was killed on the street by Cathy Chambers. The fourth was attacked by Chambers, and three of the men as well as a woman. The fifth, Kristian Darroch, was a teleporter. When we arrived at his apartment in New Orleans, we were assaulted. I was kidnapped, and Grace was forced to teleport out."

"To Japan," Grace added. "And something strange happened. As soon as I teleported into Tokyo, I was overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions. It nearly destroyed me."

Reilly patted his friend on the elbow. He had heard all about the jaunt to Tokyo, and the unexpected side-effects for Grace. "It was there I met Louise Greenland, and was introduced to her organisation." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Sorry, _your_ organisation."

"I have not been a part of that for fifteen years." Cardwell said, taking another sip of coffee.

"And that's why we're here. We want to know what happened." Grace said. "We want the history of the organisation. How it started. How you left."

"Why?" Cardwell asked.

"Because we think we need it. The knowledge that is," Reilly put in. "We need to understand the mistakes of your generation, so that ours doesn't repeat them."

"So you want to save the world, too?" Cardwell asked, looking from one to the other.

Reilly hesitated, but Grace didn't. "Yes."

Reilly looked at her, deeply shocked. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. His jaw just flapped like a fish's on land. He had no idea that she was so naïve… and, then, he realised, with a start, he was the naïve one.

He was the one that was thinking as a child; in the here and now.

Grace had been looking to the future, had been since they embarked on this journey, all that time ago in New York. He'd been looking for justification for his dead mentor's life work, whereas she'd been looking for the future of humanity.

He looked at Cardwell, suddenly so sure. "Yes," he repeated. "We are."

Cardwell nodded gravely. And she told them. She told them of the meeting in Paris, thirty eight years ago, of the discussion that the three women, Cardwell, Greenland and Chambers, had had that day, and long into the night.

And by the end of her tale, the sky had darkened, and the coffee, neither of which Reilly or Grace had touched, was ice cold.

Cardwell's bodyguard had begun dinner, cooking in the ancient kitchen just through the greenhouse door. In the five hours Cardwell had talked, Reilly and Grace had never once been bored, never once thought of something different. They were caught up in the tale of Greenland and Chambers' arguments over how best to fix the world; Greenland wanted to take a militarist stance, using the powers of the followers the three had gathered to take on the global nuclear stockpiles and the superpowers of the US and the Soviet Union.

Chambers had wanted to be more subtle; perhaps develop a retrovirus, to give every human an ability, perhaps just a straightforward pandemic that would wipe them all out.

Greenland had slowly de-radicalised, but Chambers never had.

Cardwell and Greenland, both rich already, now billionaires following the success of the Greenland Corporation in the burgeoning fields of computer technology and biogenetic research, had made a decision; they'd have two of their best agents travel to Italy and rescue a man that had been locked in prison fifty years before.

Chambers had gone off the grid a few days earlier, having attempted to recruit an individual in Bulgaria only to kill them and take their power. It had been their hope to lure her out, and the man seemed the only way. Possessed of the gift of immortality, he had been over a thousand years old.

Chambers had been expecting it. She killed him, plus the two agents sent to kill him. Then, in Italy, 1977, she disappeared for thirty years.

Cardwell had explained what had happened next, about their save-the-world organisation falling apart after the disappearance of the guiding light. She drew parallels to then and now, indicating the similarities between Greenland's first attempt at solitary rule and Brendan's flagging leadership; losing agents, losing power.

But Greenland had brought it under control, had reminded her agents, their ranks much diminished, of their true goal; saving the world.

Then, the Wall came down, and the East came together with the West, and there was no need for them. Greenland had an all-new line-up by now. Only two original faces other than herself remained. Cardwell and a woman named Edith Fesckes.

The world had changed, and Greenland had no idea how to deal with it.

In 1992, Cardwell left, returning to Africa, and soon after, Edith had returned to her native Hungary, no longer a refugee and fugitive, to help the world in their own ways.

At the conclusion of her explanation of the history of the organisation based first in Paris, then in Vienna, then in Los Angeles, Cardwell stood, and stretched. "It's too late for you to return to town," she said. "He'll have dinner cooked soon. Stay the night. Tomorrow, I will take you to the east. By the shores of Lake Volta, there is another one of us. I will return in ten minutes for dinner."

She turned to walk back into the house, but Reilly made an inquisitive noise. She looked back. "Yes?"

"What's your bodyguard's name?"

"He doesn't have one," Cardwell said, with a shrug. "He was an orphan I met upon my return. He didn't have a name then, and he never chose one. Many just call him the Ghanaian. I suggest you adopt that nomenclature."

Reilly frowned at the aristocratic language, but nodded. "Will do."

Cardwell reached the door, but she stopped once more, looking at Grace. The woman had rested her head on Reilly's shoulder during the conversation, listening intently to every word. Cardwell spoke. "You have extraordinary potential. I must say, during my time with Chambers, from '69 until '77, I always saw her as the one that would make the greatest difference in the world. You have that same potential. And the same choices to make. I hope you choose wisely."

**

* * *

**

AMY LAMOTTE  
**MARSEILLES, FRANCE

* * *

**

"Who are you working for?" Amy asked, her voice cracking as she increased the energy she was using to manifest her power. The blue glow grew tendrils, that snaked towards her hapless victim's face. "Who are you working for?"

She'd found him on a roof overlooking a park, where an engagement party for an ultra-rich French industrialist's daughter was lasting long into the night.

Marseilles stretched in all directions around her, the French port city as lively as the celebration in the park below. It was to that party Amy had tracked her prey, the thief known as The Fox. And it was to here that this sniper had tracked her.

Amy had gotten the drop on him, however, and now here he was, trapped between her hands, both of which glowed with the azure freezing energy she exuded while manifesting her ability.

The man whimpered, and Amy increased the output.

The tendrils began to leave icy imprints across his cheeks. His small beard was beginning to become rimed with frost. Amy tried French, and German, but he still didn't acknowledge the question.

"If you don't tell me, I will flash-freeze you at the cellular level, piece by piece," Amy warned, her voice full of anger and a kind of flashing malevolence.

"Wunderlich," the man croaked, clearly terrified, and obviously fully aware of what Amy's power was capable of. "Brendan Wunderlich."

Amy sighed. Brendan was becoming more proactive in hunting her down. "Bad news for you."

She increased the energy level again, and the tendrils of energy curled around him, this time having a deep-freeze effect. She was, quite literally, freezing the water in his cells. He screamed as what must have been tremendous pain tore through him. He writhed, desperate to be free, but Amy didn't let him get loose.

Seconds later, he was dead.

Louisa Rietdijk hated this part. Pretending to be interested, romantically and sexually, in a random industrialist, or banker, or media baron, was starting to wear her down. But she needed to get out, to exercise her skills, gained the hard way in years of service to the French government in less-than-legal covert operations.

She was in the master stateroom of one of the largest private water vessels she had ever seen; a super-yacht docked in Marseilles harbour, far from the shore.

Her host, a shipping magnate from Greece, was mixing a drink now, as she sat on the bed, and he turned, two tumblers of whisky in hand. He sat on the bed beside her, and put on a foul, simpering smirk. He set the drinks down, and turned for a moment, reaching for the stereo.

Louisa put her hand over his drink, and a drop of purple liquid slipped from her single, silver ring, on her index finger.

The droplet suffused into the whisky. She reached down, shaking it a little. There was no trace of the purple liquid.

She picked both up, and handed it to her host as he got the stereo playing. Sinatra, singing _My Way_. She handed him his drink, and took a sip from hers, giving him a charming smile all the way.

He drained the tumbler in one gulp.

He wasn't bad looking, really. But she was more interested in whatever goodies he had on the yacht than actually sleeping with him.

Seconds later, he was on the bed asleep.

Louisa smiled, set her tumbler down, and slipped towards the door out onto the deck of the yacht.

And on the bed behind her, beside the drugged Greek, lay a slumbering Louisa Rietdijk. An exact duplicate of the woman slipping out the French doors, onto the deck.

She got barely a metre out the door before she found her path blocked, by the woman from the Paris chateau, the one that had gotten in the way of her getting almost eight hundred thousand euros in untraceable bearer bonds.

The woman held a hand, palm flat, facing the deck.

It glowed with an eerie, ethereal blue energy.

Louisa felt her breath leave her body, and she took a step back. She was unarmed, against a woman she had shot the night before.

"Louisa Rietdijk," the woman said, "my name is Amy Lamotte. Like you, I have an ability. And I'm here to offer you a job."

**

* * *

**

LAUREN WUNDERLICH  
**SIMI VALLEY, CA

* * *

**

It was midday in Simi when Lauren Wunderlich nee Hughes, got back to their Spanish style home at the edge of the beautiful suburb lying at the very periphery of downtown Los Angeles.

She worked part time at the local library, just to give something back to the community, two days a week, and used the opportunity to do her shopping. She carried three brown paper bags, stuffed with groceries as she padded barefoot into the living room, leaving her sandals at the door.

She slipped into the open-air kitchen, and dumped the bags on the granite bench top, hitting the answering machine as she passed.

Brendan's voice came over the speaker, and she missed most of the message, but she did hear that he would be home around seven. Great, she thought. Gave her time to duck out for a bite with some friends that afternoon. She made the calls, as the groceries sat on the counter.

She returned to the brown paper bags, and moved them aside.

What she saw nearly gave her a heart attack.

A gorgeous woman was sitting on the couch in the lounge room, looking directly at Lauren. Her wavy hair was pulled back in a very flattering pony-tail, and her lips had been traced with red lipstick.

She stood the moment Lauren saw her, even before she had a chance to shout "Who the hell are you?"

Lauren heard someone clearing their throat behind her.

She spun about, to see the hulking form of a muscular blonde man. Her eyes narrowed, her heart pounding. She knew this man. One of Brendan's 'colleagues'.

"Julian?" she asked. "Julian Neave?"

"She knows you, Jules," said the woman, her accent upper-class British, so different to Lauren's own high-speed Minnesotan one. She had appeared suddenly at the kitchen counter. Lauren, fear rising from deep, deep within her, didn't dare move. "You'd better clean her out."

* * *

Brendan got home slightly later than he'd thought; seven fifteen, as opposed to seven. As he got out of the car, he was talking to Erin, now on a private jet to Berlin to meet with Kristen McQualter.

"Are you sure our guy is dead?" he said.

"Positive." Came Erin's definitive reply. "The coroner's preliminary report suggests he was frozen from the inside out. Amy definitely killed him."

"Very well," Brendan said, his tone grim. "Dispatch Lachlan Dickson and Jordan Turley. I want Lamotte and the other woman dead."

"Yes, sir," Erin said. "Talk to you when I land."

With that, she hung up, and Brendan took a welcome look at his Simi Valley home. Almost right away, he knew something was wrong. For one, Lauren's car was in the driveway, but none of the lights were on in the house.

And, for another, as he unlocked the front door, he couldn't smell any food. Usually, he got the whiff of something cooking as the door swung open, or the tang of Chinese or Thai or Indian.

He moved slowly, his instincts kicking in.

He reached the lounge room, and that's where he found her, on the couch, immobile. Clearly inconcious. "Lauren!" he shouted, darting forward. He skidded along the carpet to her, and reached for her, drawing her unconscious frame to him.

Her eyes flickered open, briefly, and she said through parched lips "Julian."

Her eyes closed immediately. Brendan felt for a pulse, all the while shouting questions at her, trying to keep her conscious. "Julian? Julian Neave? What happened Lauren? Lauren? Can you hear me? Lauren!"

Finally, her eyes opened again, and it was as though she was waking from a deep slumber. She had a dozy smile on her face, and she yawned, and stretched, and sat up, looking around through sleep filled eyes. "What time is it?" she asked through another yawn.

Brendan recognised it in an instant. Julian Neave had been here, and he'd wiped Lauren's memory. That's when Brendan realised what they were after; his files.

That's when Brendan got scared.


	3. Village Man

_**

* * *

  
VILLAGE MAN

* * *

**_

**OUTSIDE ACCRA, GHANA

* * *

**

Reilly Carroll's second day in Africa started much the same way his first had; someone banging on the door, bidding him to greet the new day, far too early. The night before he had lain awake for what seemed like forever in the stifling heat and the crushing darkness, the dream about what happened in Los Angeles on that night four months ago playing over and over again.

Last night, he had slept like a baby. The rude awakening visited upon him by the man known only as The Ghanaian had jerked him awake in what must have a REM cycle; he was still desperately tired, and was struggling to keep his eyes open.

The four poster bed on which he had slept wasn't particularly comfortable, and the statue of the Virgin Mary, as well as the African tribal masks hanging on the faded floral wallpaper had made for an eerie sleeping experience.

When he trudged into the mansion's kitchen after an unsatisfying, lukewarm shower, he smelt the sizzling bacon and a whiff of what could only have been orange juice, and he was properly awake in an instant. One word rumbled through his sleep-addled mind; food.

He found The Ghanaian standing over the stove, cracking eggs into a saucepan.

At the long, oak table, Grace Scott and their host, Priscilla Adei-Cardwell were talking, and Reilly got an air of fear coming off his friend.

Reilly pulled out a chair, and sat down. Cardwell slid a clean glass over to him, and he picked up the pitcher of orange juice, pouring a good measure. He downed it in two gulps. Then he poured himself another.

"Good morning," he said to Grace, after knocking back this second glass.

"Good morning," Grace said, flashing him a smile.

"I'm glad you're already dressed, Mister Carroll," Cardwell said, cutting through their brief conversation. "I was hoping to leave before eight this morning. We have quite some driving to do."

"Where?" Reilly asked, glancing at The Ghanaian.

"We're heading east, to Lake Volta. There's a place there, with a Carrier of the Gene. I thought you'd like to meet him."

**

* * *

REILLY, ****GRACE &**** CARDWELL  
****SHORE OF LAKE VOLTA, GHANA

* * *

**

Hours had passed since a breakfast taken in silence; the four had taken Reilly and Grace's rented Jeep, as Cardwell had lamented hers was damaged. The Ghanaian was driving, a gun the exact twin of Reilly's at his side. Cardwell sat in the passenger's seat, watching the Ghanaian scenery pass them by, softly humming a tune.

Reilly and Grace sat in the back; neither of them had spoken since their brief greeting that morning. They sat in silence, Reilly calibrating the small device he had inherited from Greenland that enabled instantaneous testing of a suspected Carrier's blood determining within a few seconds whether or not they possessed the potential to manifest abilities. Grace merely stared out the window, and Reilly got the impression she was thinking long and hard about something.

To be honest, he was too.

Chambers, like Grace had been an empathic telepath, capable of detecting and manipulating emotions and thoughts, and like Grace had had grandiose dreams of saving the world. Chambers, Reilly had gathered, had determined that normal humanity, people without abilities, were not worth saving, however. The question was, would Grace develop the same attitude?

Would the old platitude hold true, that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely? Though Grace did have _absolute_ power, she had enough.

They'd seen firsthand what Chambers had been capable of, and Grace had had a taste of the extent of her own ability in the three months since. They'd seen the disadvantages, too; first in Boston, then in Tokyo, when a kick start of Grace's ability saw her suddenly detect the thoughts of hundreds of thousands of people at once; both times, it had almost killed her.

If Grace got a true taste of her ultimate potential, would she be able to resist?

Reilly liked to hope that she would, but the truth was he didn't know. He didn't even know how he would handle an ability like that, or how he would take on such huge power, and its resultant responsibility.

In the days that Cardwell, Greenland and Chambers first met in a Parisian street café, it must have seem so simple. There was a credible threat to world peace and stability, represented by the twin spectres of the United States and the Soviet Union. The agents the expected destruction were ICBMs and multi-megaton nuclear warheads.

Now, it wasn't so simple.

Humanity was facing so many threats, from so many fronts that there was no real way to stop it.

Reilly had hoped, when he started four months earlier, that this journey would be one of scientific discovery, not of philosophical questing.

He set aside the testing device, confident in its operation, and reached for the laptop, riding on the stained seat beside him. He picked it up, set it on his knees, and powered it up. After the usual flourish, Vista started working, and Reilly waited as it connected the global network maintained by no less than twelve Greenland Corporation satellites orbiting the Earth.

Grace shifted towards him, and he glanced at her, getting the impression she was about to speak. She seemed to decide better of it, turning back towards the window.

They'd each been given separate rooms the night before, and had had no chance to communicate away from their hosts, even though, Reilly knew, Grace had the ability to project her thoughts into his mind and read the responses. Reilly guessed she had just wanted to be alone with her thoughts for a little while, especially after Cardwell's somewhat ominous warning the night before.

"Are you alright?" he asked her in a hushed voice.

"Yeah," she said off-handedly, still staring out the window as the countryside passed them by. Still, Reilly could tell that she was not.

"Are you sure?"

In response, her voice echoes through his mind. _I'm fine, okay? Don't push it_.

Reilly looked away from her, and down at the computer as it finally connected. He thought, a little huffily, _Fine_.

He immediately set about checking his emails; he was amazed at the amount of junk his account had picked up in the three days since he had checked it. Updates from Brendan, in L.A., bulletins from the Berkeley students association, emails from friends he hadn't seem in four months, and then, his heart jumped, one from Alex Chapman.

She had been a waitress in Alabama when Reilly met her, but now she was a full time student, on her way to becoming a nurse. She was a Carrier, who had manifested; she had the ability of rapid cellular regeneration; she could heal almost any injury instantaneously.

He'd spent a night with her, way back when, and had visited her for a few weeks. They'd become close, close enough for him to ask if she wanted to join him on the world tour.

She'd turned him down, though she had expressed her true, deep regret, just as she had when he'd asked if she'd like to come with him on his cross-continental search for those gifted with abilities. Then, like now, she'd had commitments, and her ability did not exempt her from them.

Reilly opened the email, and read it quickly. She just said hello, and caught him up on the current details of her life; that she'd found a new job, that she'd come first in her class and, most significantly, that she missed him.

He composed a quick response, writing about the journey to Ghana, the day he had spent there, and where he was intending to go next. A message from Brendan had instructed him to go to Mumbai; he'd happily agreed. He wished her luck with her upcoming exams and in the new job, and sent the email on its way.

He turned off the laptop, after writing a few more replies, and placed it back on the seat beside him.

They'd been driving for hours, and it was the first time he had bothered to actually look at what was out the window. It was glorious; rolling green hills, thickly growing forests, small, well-ordered towns. It wasn't the Africa depicted on television; it was alive, teeming. Truly beautiful.

Ghana was, really, a nice county, not at all what Reilly had expected. Though he hadn't seen much, he was afraid any more would ruin the experience for him.

The sun was high above, nearly at its zenith, when they finally reached Lake Volta, no words passing between any of them; the only sounds were the rumbling of the wheels over the gravel and the occasional sound of someone drinking from a canteen.

The sight of the lake took Reilly and Grace's collective breath away. It stretched between two mountain ranges, the water deep blue and shimmering in the sunlight. Water lapped at the expansive, grassy shores. The Jeep moved down the side of the mountain, towards the lake, and, Reilly saw a small village.

The lake stretched to the north and south as far as the eye could see. It was the world's largest reservoir in the world, eight thousand five hundred square kilometres in size, more than 520 kilometres long.

"Wow," Grace breathed, and Reilly heard the wonder in her voice.

"Incredible," Cardwell said from the front. "Isn't it?"

Grace narrowed her eyes, and watched the woman sitting in front of her as The Ghanaian concentrated on manoeuvring the Jeep down the steep, rocky roads.

Cardwell went on, "But absolutely nothing compared with the true extent of our potential..." Reilly expected her to say something about individuals with abilities, but she surprised him by finishing with "...as human beings."

He felt relief radiate off of Grace as well.

They settled back, and continued the drive to the village in silence, finally coming down the sides of the mountain onto a long, sweeping plain of golden grasses swaying in the gentle breeze. The village was a collection of twenty or thirty single-story wooden bungalows and one massive shed that stood on the waterfront, surrounded by a small brood of fishing boats and tiny sailing craft. It has hard to tell from a distance if any of the boats were equipped with motors, though Reilly would have been surprised if they had.

The Jeep cut across a dusty track that led straight through the middle of town.

As they passed the first bungalow, Grace's hand shot out, clamping around Reilly's right knee.

"What is it?" he asked, wincing as she squeezed tighter.

"There's no one here," she whispered. "The town's empty."

"Close," The Ghanaian said, his voice booming through the vehicle. "There is one man still living here."

"Living?" Reilly groaned, choking back an ominous feeling rising within him.

Grace's hand tightened again. "Oh my God."

Reilly looked over his friend's shoulder, and, in the ground-level door of one of the bungalows was a body, as though it had simply keeled over while trying to leave the house. He had to fight to keep himself vomiting; Grace wasn't so lucky.

"Pull over!" he shouted, and The Ghanaian complied. Grace wrenched the door open, just before she exploded, pouring sick over the dusty ground. She fell to her hands and knees, wheezing and dry-retching.

Reilly leapt to her side, holding her as she coughed and gagged on bile, trying to keep her steady. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice getting panicked. "Breathe... breathe. What happened?"

Grace finally recovered enough to speak. "The Ghanaian was right. There's one left. He's so... full of darkness. There's so much sadness and..."

She could say no more; she simply collapsed into tears in Reilly's arms, sobbing pitifully as tears streamed down her face. He held her to him, and rocked back and forth. But the damage had been done; she'd actively sought out the survivor, and had seen his mind first-hand; every twisted, dark emotion. It affected her deeply, and had only happened once before; immediately after the rooftop showdown in Los Angeles.

At length, she recovered, and, as she was still shaky on her knees, Reilly helped her up, and back to the car. Cardwell was waiting, a canteen in hand. She offered it to Grace, who downed it in a few gulps.

"Are you okay?" Cardwell asked, seeming genuinely concerned.

Grace nodded. "Where's The Ghanaian?"

"He's gone to find our host," Cardwell answered. "I would have asked you to, but I think it's safer to keep you away from his mind."

"And the body?" Reilly asked. "Is it safe to be here?"

"You are never safe when meeting one of us for the first time," Cardwell said, glancing at the body, It was a few days old, and the flies were starting to gather. "I believe that that body may be the evidence of our host's ability."

"Are you serious?" Reilly spat. He looked at the body, swarming with insects. He caught a glimpse of the dead person's dark skin, and saw what looked like crusty white sores. "It looks like the plague..."

"Perhaps it is," Cardwell shrugged.

Grace looked as disgusted as Reilly felt.

"If you think about it, it's not that surprising." Cardwell shrugged. "Consider that these powers are genetic mutations. There are advantageous mutations, such as the ability to fly, or to read minds. It makes stands to reason that there are some less-than-desirable mutations. Such as, say, the ability to carry and spread a deadly virus. A plague, as has seemed to have happened here."

The Ghanaian reappeared then, coming around the car. "I've found him. He's in the town's cemetery."

Cardwell nodded. "Come on, let's go."

The four set off into the ghost town, to meet the man that had wrought this devastation with the plague he carried within.

They found him at the edge of town, kneeling beside one of dozens of freshly dug graves. The tears started flowing down Grace's cheeks once again, and she shook with small sobs. Reilly looped his arm over her shoulder, pulling her to him.

"Good day," Cardwell said in English.

The man leapt to his feet, brandishing a shovel, his clothes torn and dirty, his face marked with tear tracks. He barked something in an incomprehensible indigenous language, that Reilly recognised as Dagaare.

Cardwell barked something back.

They held a brief conversation, none of which Reilly understood. The Ghanaian appeared Reilly and whispered to him to hand over the testing device that would determine whether or not the man was a Carrier. Reilly handed it over, and the Ghanaian rejoined the conversation. Finally, The Ghanaian and the Dagaare-speaking, wild-looking village man walked away together, and Cardwell turned back to Reilly and Grace.

"We're waiting in his house," Cardwell said, "while they talk."

She sounded somewhat bitter.

"Come on," Cardwell said, setting off towards one of the bungalows. "I'd like to talk about Mumbai."

Reilly and Grace shared glances.

* * *

The three of them reached a comfortable-looking, three-room bungalow. Cardwell opened the front door, ushering them into the small, yet cosy, living room of the bungalow. They took three of the four chairs around the rickety table. 

They talked about what Reilly and Grace were planning on doing next. Reilly hadn't yet had a chance to tell Grace about the message he'd gotten from Brendan that morning, ordering him to Mumbai, though Cardwell had found out independently; she still maintained regular email contact with Brendan, as she had with Greenland before him. In the end, they'd agreed to spend one more night at Cardwell's mansion, and in the morning fly out from Accra.

All four of them; Cardwell, Grace, Reilly and The Ghanaian.

Cardwell explained that the village man was unconvinced as to their intentions, and she'd had The Ghanaian take him for a walk to calm him down.

At length, they returned, The Ghanaian standing in a corner, the village man taking a seat across from Reilly and Grace, beside Cardwell. He turned to Cardwell, and said something in Dagaare. Cardwell translated it for Reilly and Grace "He says he has ready to tell us his story."

"By the way," The Ghanaian added, placing the testing device on the table in front of Reilly. "He is positive for the Gene."

Reilly nodded, and slid the device back towards himself, slipping it into his pocket. He looked back at Cardwell and nodded.

And, with Cardwell translating, Reilly and Grace listened to the man tell his story.

"It started after night of hard drinking. The next morning, he could barely remember what had caused it. Someone had said something, about someone. And he got angry. He'd finished his beer, and gone home. He didn't have to work the next morning, so he came home late. His wife was up and knitting, listening to the radio when he got home.

"He kissed her, and she wished him a goodnight. He had placed his hands on her cheeks, and then he had slumped into his bed, and drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep.

"The next morning, he woke up with a hangover. His wife barely woke up." It was here the man started crying, and Cardwell placed a hand on his shoulder. Reilly and Grace could barely move. They knew what was coming next; the death of the entire village. He went on.

"Her skin had lost its sheen during the night; she was flushed, dripping with cold sweat. She could barely open her eyes or speak, let alone get out of bed." Cardwell translated. "He ran to the doctor's hut, and then they ran back. The doctor was white, an Englishman doing charity work here, who spoke their language. When they got back, his wife was unconscious, and barely breathing. She fought the illness for two weeks, while it ravaged her body. Finally, the doctor told him that he could do nothing. She died that night. He went to see the doctor the next morning, consumed with rage."

The man's fists clenched, and Reilly and Grace moved backwards in their seats instinctively. The man ignored them, fresh tears streaking down his face.

"He had felt the anger, actually felt it, bubbling up like black liquid..." Cardwell paused, looking for a better word. "Like tar, bubbling up through his skin; it never came out, but he felt as though it had. He grabbed the doctor's hand, and he felt the darkness leave him for a little while. As soon as he left it came back. The doctor died three days later."

Reilly and Grace traded shocked glances. Grace's eyes were red from crying.

"And the sickness spread. Everyone who went to visit the doctor that first day, before he became ill, got sick. It started with sweating, then aching, then the inability to keep food down. Then the boils came; they were white on the outside, and became black, dried-blood encrusted sores in their centre, before becoming white in the centre just before death," Cardwell closed her eyes, as the man buried his face into his hands.

"All who came into contact contracted the disease." Cardwell said, struggling to translate as the man spoke into his hands, his muffled voice barely reaching her. "People fled the village, and the authorities never came to help. It took almost four months, but, eventually, most of them were gone. The rest were dead or dying. Except for him and the priest."

The man who had watched his wife die, who had experienced the blackness of rage and grief fester as though beneath his skin, had been the only healthy young man left in his village, Reilly realised. No wonder he looked so gaunt, so worn.

"The priest was old, but so far unaffected by the disease. He's never touched the priest, and they'd barely been around one another except for Sunday services. They made rounds every morning, feeding the ill, keeping them comfortable, as more and more died, and more and more became weaker and weaker. At first, the village had buried the dead. Then the undertaker and his family had gotten sick. So the rest of the village buried them, and tried to keep burying as their number diminished, until there was no one left to bury any more."

Grace's jaw hung open, and she reached for the man's hand. He jerked the massive, calloused limb away from her, and kept talking, Cardwell translating. "All they could do was care for the dying, hoping that at least some of them would pull through. None of them ever did. When the village elder died, the rest of the village gave up hope. They'd cared for him with loving devotion, they'd prayed for him into the small hours of the morning, but still he had succumbed to the sickness."

The man paused, lifting a cup of water to his parched lips. Then he continued, Cardwell still translating. "Only the priest and the man were left now, to care to the dozens of dying, and to try and bury the dead. The priest gave the villagers their Last Rites when they asked for them, and even when they didn't. Then, the priest got sick."

"No," Grace whispered, and her hand clasped Reilly's. He could barely believe what he was hearing, He'd had no idea how dark the dark side of these abilities could be. Dozens dead, all because of one man's ability,

Cardwell kept going, translating as the man spoke, "He held on for a month; he saw the village crumble as one healthy man tried to keep it going. In the end, as fewer and fewer remained, and knowing his own time was near, the priest held one last confessional; only he could attend. He blamed himself now, and told the priest so. The priest took his hand, and said he could feel the darkness. The priest told him it wasn't his fault. He died in the confessional box, after giving one order for penance. To bury the dead."

The man stopped speaking, and stood. He turned towards his bungalow's door, and barked back something.

"And now I have to finish," Cardwell translated as he disappeared through the door.

"And we will help him," The Ghanaian said, his voice deep. "We will help him find forgiveness from his Lord."

It was then Reilly noticed the crucifix around The Ghanaian's neck.

He looked at Grace. Through tear-filled eyes, she nodded.

It took hours; digging, dragging, lowering, filling, placing a whitewashed wooden cross at the head of the grave, with the person's name carved into the wood. Grace did the carving, while Cardwell did the filling. Reilly and the man ultimately responsible for the death that lay around them did the digging. The Ghanaian dragged six bodies at a time, and Reilly finally realised his ability; enhanced strength, like the deceased Jake Nicholson.

In the end, they were covered in dirt, and the sun had almost disappeared over the horizon; the sky was painted in gold and dusty pink by the time they returned to the man's bungalow.

They went through the motions, Reilly instructing Cardwell to invite the man for treatment and voluntary containment in Los Angeles until a permanent solution could be found, a way for him to control his power.

He declined. Too many had died, he said.

He thanked them for their help, never once speaking English, never once saying his name. Cardwell told them all to leave, saying that she would meet them at the car. Reilly and Grace needed no further pushing; they were tired, exhausted, physically and emotionally spent.

They'd buried at least thirty people that day.

As The Ghanaian reluctantly left, Cardwell sat down at the man's rickety table, directly across from him. She reached into her pocket, and removed a shining, silver gun, the exact duplicate of Reilly's and The Ghanaian's.

The village man eyed it suspiciously. He looked up at Cardwell.

"That gun has one bullet in it," Cardwell explained, in the language he had used all day. "Once I leave, you can decide what to do with it."

The man didn't speak until Cardwell was almost out the door. "Suicide is a sin."

"If, after everything you've been through, the Lord doesn't let you into heaven, then he wasn't worth worshipping in the first place." Cardwell turned back to him, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Rest in peace."

She disappeared, leaving the man staring at the gun.

* * *

Cardwell had wiped away the tears when she got back to the car. Reilly Carroll and Grace Scott were already in the back seat, the former with his arms around the latter. 

The Ghanaian, her faithful bodyguard, stood waiting outside the driver's side door, arms crossed. "Are you ready?" he asked her.

"I am," Cardwell answered. "This is over."

Then, from the depths of the village, came a single gunshot, resounding through the rapidly descending night.

"What was that?" The Ghanaian barked.

"A man's freedom," Cardwell shrugged. "Come on, let's get out of here."


	4. Once Started

_**

* * *

ONCE STARTED

* * *

**_

**REILLY, ****GRACE ****&**** CARDWELL  
****ACCRA, GHANA

* * *

**

Reilly Carroll, Grace Scott and Priscilla Adei-Cardwell had little trouble passing security at Accra's Kotoka International Airport. The three, plus Cardwell's enigmatic bodyguard, known only as The Ghanaian, had moved through astonishingly quickly. It was still early, and they'd been told the flight to Addis Ababa was only one fifth full. From there, they'd board a plane to Mumbai.

Reilly and Grace waited in the gate lounge, while Cardwell and The Ghanaian went to get a morning snack for the four of them. It had been a hard night; Grace had cried most of it, while Reilly had sat up drinking with The Ghanaian.

The story of the man in the village on the shores of Lake Volta had touched Reilly, and had devastated Grace.

She sat beside him now, sobbing dryly. Reilly looped his arm around her, and pulled her close. She pressed her face into his arm.

Finally, the boarding call came, soon after Cardwell and her mysterious sentinel returned. The four boarded, bound for Ethiopia, and from there to India. The next leg of their journey was about to begin.

**

* * *

ERIN EEDY  
****BERLIN, GERMANY

* * *

**

It was midday when Erin Eedy arrived at the train yard; the sun beat down upon Berlin, the cold of the night completely forgotten in the newfound warmth of day. Driving through the bustling, modern city, it had been hard to imagine it in the 1980s; run-down, dying under Soviet oppression.

She pulled her black Mercedes to a stop just in front of the rusted through chain-link gate of the yard, and took the keys from the ignition. She squinted into the sunlight, weed-covered, rusted-train studded expanse of gravel.

There was no sign of another car.

Erin popped the door, and slipped out into the sunshine. It wasn't as warm as it should have; the air still had a bitter, cold tang to it.

Erin walked to the gates, and she felt a shudder run through her body. Something was very wrong here. Her hand reached into her coat, and her hand clasped the pistol butt. She removed the weapon, and held it to her side as she entered.

The trains had not run for twenty years; the tracks on which they still lay had been built over by the developing of the New Berlin, so they were effectively trapped here.

"Erin?"

Erin already knew who it was. "Kristen," Erin said, turning towards the speaker. Kristen McQualter was Erin's opposite; shorter, paler-skin, straight black hair. Erin was far taller, over six feet, her hair waved and auburn. Their abilities, the manifestation of the Gene they carried, were also very different.

Kristen had the ability to spontaneously generate forcefields by mentally charging atmospheric particles, and forcing them together. Erin, however, had the ability of human flight; she could fly through the atmosphere at supersonic speeds, or hover across a room.

"It's good to see you," Kristen said, stepping out from behind one of the ancient, broken-down train engine. "It's good to see anyone."

Erin nodded. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I've been poking around the yard," Kristen said. Erin noted that her hands were dark with dirt from the 'poking around'. She gestured towards the depths of the yard. "There's a train over there. It looks like it's been ripped off the tracks and dumped there.""Show me," Erin said, and Kristen led her through the yard. Erin said "You say it looked like it was ripped off the tracks? Like telekinesis?"

"Hold on," Kristen answered.

They reached the area Kristen had described; a train had been pulled off the tracks, and thrown across the yard, leaving a trail of debris and rust, before landing on the gravel and shattering. Each of the broken pieces looked warped, as though had literally been twisted b some kind of ultra-powerful magnetic force.

"I found this," Kristen said, stepping over to Erin, extending her hand. She opened her fingers, revealing a small, folded scrap of paper.

Erin picked it up, opening it.

An address.

"You think we should go here?" Erin asked the woman beside her, who simply stared out at the remnants of the train, frowning as though trying to remember something. "Hello? Kristen?"

"Huh?" she said, snapping around. "What?"

"Do you want to go to this address?" Erin asked, her own brow crinkling. "Are you okay?"

"I think Julian Neave messed with my memory," Kristen answered. "But I'm not sure."

Erin nodded. "You're missing a few days. I think he did, too. I recognise the feeling. I remember it. S, do you wanna check out this address or not?"

"Definitely," Kristen answered. "It's our only lead."

"Well, then, let's go." Erin said, though she had known from the second she saw the scrap of paper that she'd be going there. Edith Fesckes was too important to forget about so quickly. Far too important. Allowing Kristen to make the 'choice' was just a way to let the woman still feel a part of the assignment.

Kristen turned to leave, but Erin reached into her coat pocket, removing a small digital camera. She snapped a few shots of the train, then of the piece of paper still in her hand.

Then she followed Kristen.

It took them twenty minutes to reach the address, an empty warehouse not far from the train yard, in the middle of an industrial development, The are was all concrete and corrugated steel and graffiti; an ugly realism of city living.

Kristen was the first out; she practically bounded out of the car towards the massive rolling doors of the warehouse, and Erin followed, snapping photographs of the exterior.

"It's not padlocked," Kristen shouted.

Erin took not of the address, and pulled out her Sidekick, punching in a message. She sent it as Kristen got a hold of the one the massive doors, and shoved it open.

With a rusty, teeth-shattering grinding, the door flew open, a loud bang echoing through the cool air as it came to a stop.

Kristen was the first in, a flashlight suddenly in hand. She swept the beam of light this way and that, illuminating the massive chamber within. With a concrete floor, towering cement walls and a high, steepled ceiling of iron, it seemed to be some industrial spectre of a grand cathedral.

"Nothing," Kristen muttered. It was entirely empty. Nonetheless, Erin snapped photos of the interior, and the tire marks on the floor.

"Wait." Erin said. "What's that?"

Kristen turned, and followed Erin's gaze to a shadowed corner. A single chair, wooden, with a wicker seat, sat there, in front of a pair of wooden crates, stacked on top of each other.

Chained to the legs of the chair were a pair of handcuffs.

They drew closer, Erin taking pictures, the flash briefly illuminating what Kristen's torch could not. Finally, Erin slipped the camera away.

That was when she first heard it.

A gentle beeping. Now she knew it was there, it was louder; echoing off the concrete surfaces. "Can you hear that?" Kristen said, echoing Erin's thoughts.

"I can," Erin said, and the two moved closer to the chair and the crates.

Kristen shone her flash light on a dark outline atop the crates, and her jaw fell open. "Mother of God."

It was a detonator, red numbers on the small screen counting down to zero. And it was almost there. Ten seconds to detonation.

"Erin..." Kristen said, warningly.

Erin grabbed the woman's elbow. "We must have activated it when we opened the door. Come on."

They turned to run, the beeping getting louder. Their footsteps echoed through the vast, empty chamber as the detonator passed five.

They were almost at the door when it reached one.

The explosion tore through the morning air, releasing a great plume of fire into the clear, blue sky over Berlin, belching a column of smoke and superheated ash into the atmosphere, as half a ton of high explosives vaporised the warehouse, and the car parked out the front investigating detectives would soon determine to be a Mercedes.

They did not, however, find any bodies in the rubble.

For, just as the shockwave from the explosion reached the retreating forms of Erin Eedy and Kristen McQualter, the former tackled the latter aside.

And, as the flames consumed the doorway and licked at the sky, a form shot like an arrow into the sky, a trail of smoke left hanging in the air after it.

**

* * *

BRENDAN & LAUREN WUNDERLICH  
****SIMI VALLEY****, CA

* * *

**

Brendan Wunderlich had just gotten home when he entered his lounge room reached the lounge room, and that's where he found his wife, sprawled on the couch, immobile. Clearly unconscious. "Lauren!" he shouted, darting forward. He skidded along the carpet to her, and reached for her, drawing her unconscious frame to him.

Her eyes flickered open, briefly, and she said through parched lips "Julian."

Her eyes closed immediately. Brendan felt for a pulse, all the while shouting questions at her, trying to keep her conscious. "Julian? Julian Neave? What happened Lauren? Lauren? Can you hear me? Lauren!"

Finally, her eyes opened again, and it was as though she was waking from a deep slumber. She had a dozy smile on her face, and she yawned, and stretched, and sat up, looking around through sleep filled eyes. "What time is it?" she asked through another yawn.

Brendan recognised it in an instant. Julian Neave had been here, and he'd wiped Lauren's memory. That's when Brendan realised what they were after; his files.

That's when Brendan got scared.

He helped Lauren up, but, without saying a word, bolted towards the stairs up to the second level of their Spanish-style Simi Valley home, which he took two at a time, until he reached the top. He shouldered his way into the master bedroom, ignored the queen-sized bed, and ran to the bay window, pulling away the throw rugs and the cushions that sat on the small storage bin beneath the window. The bin had no external means of access; it was designed specifically for Brendan's ability.

His hand phased through the wood, and unhooked the latch. The bin fell open. Inside, Brendan kept paper back-ups of all his files, including information on every operative of his group, both past and present, accounted for and AWOL. One of them was missing.

Brendan knew whose it was immediately. He kept it to the far left of the bin. It was gone. The file pertained to four individuals; specifically, their current whereabouts. Sophie Freeman, the woman with the ability to draw images of the future. Kyle Smith, the orphaned teen with the potential to control the weather. Monica Wilkie, a girl with the power to mimic any physical action. Kristian Darroch, a New Orleans man capable of teleporting anywhere on the planet in the blink of an eye.

After the showdown with Chambers, the four of them had been furnished with new identities and set up in a beach house on picturesque Seventeen Mile Drive near Monterey, California.

They'd be kept safe, no matter what. They'd be allowed to live their lives in peace, security and anonymity. But someone had compromised the file. Someone, working with Julian Neave, had been able to locate Sophie.

"Brendan?" Lauren said from behind him. "Are you okay?"

Brendan closed the bin, mind racing. "I'm fine." He stood, and faced her. "I think you should get some rest. You don't look well."

Lauren smiled. "Always the charmer. I think you're right though."

As Lauren disappeared into their en suite to prepare for bed, Brendan sat on the bed, staring out the window. This was a big problem.

**

* * *

LOS ANGELES, CA

* * *

**

Brendan entered his office the next morning to find Elena Moskovski already waiting for him, standing in front of the massive desk. She, like Brendan, had an ability; she was able to generate sonic shockwaves with the power of her voice, strong enough to knock a man flying across the room. And, with Erin gone, she was Brendan's most trusted ally.

"Good morning," Brendan said, sauntering in. "Sorry I'm late. The I5 was murder."

Elena smiled knowledgeably, "I know. It's been like that all week. What can I do for the organisation today, sir?"

Brendan took his seat. "I need you in Monterey, ASAP."

"Monterey?" Elena asked. "Why?"

"There's been a serious security breach," Brendan explained. "I want you to take four non-Carriers to Monterey, and set up a security cordon for Sophie Freeman. Then I want you back here."

"No problem," Elena said. "I'll be back in three days."

Brendan leant back as she left. Sophie was not to be contacted unless it was a dire emergency; he didn't want to scare her unnecessarily. She was also not supposed to contact him unless one of her drawings pictured something pertaining to the future of the organisation, or Brendan himself.

He sighed. The second security slip in a matter of days; first Kristen in Berlin, now this. Things were looking bad.

**

* * *

AMY LAMOTTE  
****MARSEILLES, FRANCE**

* * *

"Are you sure this is it?" a voice whispered through the darkness.

"Positive," Amy Lamotte whispered back, her flashlight sweeping the darkened office before her. "They're pretty serious about this stuff."

"I don't doubt it."

A second beam of light joined the one emanating from Amy's flashlight, illuminating more of the office. Louisa Rietdijk stepped into more appreciable light. She swung the light around in an arc, illuminating the whole western side of the office.

Their mission was simple; find the file relating to the mysterious 'Burak', a billionaire rumoured to live somewhere in Spain, high up in the Pyrenees. Amy crossed to a locked filing cabinet, one of half a dozen on that side of the room. She ran her eyes across the label, translating the French as she went. The label translated to 'Top Secret'.

"This looks like it," Amy said, and the freezing blow glow danced around the index finger of her right hand. She reached out, and touched the lock.

It froze instantly.

She tugged on the drawer's handle, and it opened with a teeth-chattering snap as the brittle lock snapped clean in half. The drawer was crammed with manila files; dozens upon dozens, overflowing with pages. By the far the largest was a file marked '_Personnes des __particulier_'.

Unique people.

"I've got it," Amy said, fishing it out.

She dumped it on the floor of the office, and held up her flashlight. She opened it finding herself at an index page. She ran her finger down the list of placements; all of them names. Only two stood out to her; _L. Rietdijk_ and _H. __Burak_. A third name, _E__Feckes_, was also familiar, but Amy couldn't place it.

Amy smiled. "I've definitely got it."

"Then let's get the hell out of here," Louisa whispered. She was understandably nervous; breaking into chateaus was one thing; breaking into the office of the Director of the Marseilles branch of the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire was something else all together.

Louisa turned towards the door, but barely got three steps. Two men were standing in the doorway, both armed. One was medium height, with scruffy dark hair. The other was tall, gangly, with a thick, red-gold mop, who was staring intently at Louisa, as though trying to memorise her appearance, every detail.

Louisa audibly gasped with surprise, taking a stumbling step backwards. "Amy!" she shouted.

Amy whipped around, producing a gun, grabbing the file as she went.

The dark-haired man turned his gun on Amy, and she instantly recognised him, and his friend.

"Jordan Turley?" she said, eyes wide. "Lachlan Dickson?" She knew both of them, from her time working for Greenland. She knew them well enough to know they were most certainly working for Brendan. "Louisa, get out of here!"

Louisa didn't need a second warning. She melted away as the real Louisa broke the mental connection, deactivating her power of astral projection.

Jordan turned to his accomplice. "Have you got her?""Yes," Dickson replied.

"Go."

Dickson slipped out the door, into the darkened hall. It was then Amy remembered his ability; clairvoyance. He could located someone, no matter where they were, as long as he knew their appearance. And, having seen the astral projection of Louisa's mental self, he knew exactly where she was.

Amy took a step forward, holding her gun up in her right hand, her left swirling with the azure energy of her power manifesting.

Turley only smiled.

He reached out his old hand, and Amy felt the air around her suddenly drop in temperature as the moisture was sucked out of it. The blue glow died away. She could only stare at her hand in open-mouthed horror.

Turley had used his power of rapid dehydration to suck the water from the air.

"You can't freeze anything," he began, a wolfish grin stretching across his face, "if there's no water in the atmosphere."

He whipped the gun up and moved towards her, firing as he went.

Amy leapt over the desk in the centre of the room, knocking the objects on the surface flying. She banged her hand against a desk lamp. Pain shot through her wrist, and her gun fell away. Amy rolled over the wood, landing on the carpet, knocking over the swivel chair. She held her hand out, but only a few thin wisps of blue light drifted up from her palm. She wouldn't be able to freeze a snowflake, not with the complete lack of atmospheric moisture.

The bullets ricocheted off the wall before Amy, but not one struck the desk.

She heard footsteps as Jordan Turley grew closer. Unarmed, and with her power neutralised, she was useless against Turley. She tried to remember what she had heard about Jordan; that he had the ability to suck dry a glass of water, or deprive an entire room of moisture. He could also remove the water from living cells, in much the same way that Amy froze it. But what happened to the water after he dehydrated a room, or a person?

Then it hit her.

He stored it at the cellular level. All she needed to do was _freeze_ him, as she had with Brendan's sniper two nights before. She heard his footsteps reach the desk. This was her only chance.

She shoved upwards, the desk flying backwards, knocking Turley off his feet. The gun went off, putting a round in the ceiling.

Amy jumped towards him, and managed to get a hold of wrist. She twisted, hard; bones broke, the gun fell. He screamed, and Amy pulled him close to her. "There may be no water left in the air, but there's plenty here."

Jordan screamed as the cold froze him from the inside out. He died within seconds. The corpse shattered, like so much glass.

**

* * *

TANGIER, MOROCCO

* * *

**

Lachlan Dickson moved slowly, economically, gun out, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of movement as she slowly pushed the apartment door open. It hadn't been hard to find Louisa Rietdijk once his power had gotten started.

He'd examined her features closely. Well, the features of her astral form. With that, his power of clairvoyance kicked in; he found her in Morocco, in a hotel not far from the ocean in Tangier. He'd left Jordan to deal with Lamotte; her power was useless; she'd be easy to kill. Booking passage on the first ferry across the Mediterranean to Northern Africa, Lachlan had found his way to Louisa's hotel easily enough.

As he entered the room, decorated in the unique Moorish-style, the long-barrelled silver gun in hand, he glanced around, keeping his ears pricked.

He heard running water from the shower.

There was a lap top on the room's coffee table, and few sheets of paper, mostly written in French. His power confirmed Louisa was in the next room.

A breeze blew in through the open arch windows, rustling the long, gossamer curtains. The hotel was expensive, housed in a building five hundred years old; most of the furnishings were just as old. The peeling green-and-gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper was starting to peel, but it merely added to the French colonial charm of the place.

The woman's shower was still going. Steam was pouring from the beneath the door to the bathroom. Lachlan poked around on the coffee table, but most of the documents were incomprehensible to him, in French, German, Italian, a few in Russian. Another in Greek.

He heard movement in the bathroom, but the steam was still was pouring out.

He hefted the gun, and crept towards the door to the hotel room's bedroom. There was another door to the bathroom through there.

He nudged the door open. Documents covered the bed, and he saw a small metal lock box on the bed, flung open, a padlock on the bed. There were some clothes on the ground, and the standalone wardrobe's left door hung open.

"Freeze!"

Lachlan spun as soon as he heard the voice and opened fire, squeezing off a pair of gunshots. Neither struck the bathrobe-clad woman standing in the bathroom doorframe, though she did flinch, her own shots, from a compact Heckler and Koch, going wide.

Lachlan leapt back into the lounge room, as Louisa Rietdijk appeared at the other bathroom doorway. Lachlan knew it was the real her; the clairvoyance would have told him if it wasn't.

He squeezed off another shot, and Louisa was forced to the ground. The gun went sprawling. She lunged for it, but Lachlan got to her first. He kicked away the gun, and lifted his, pointed directly at Louisa's head.

Her eyes widened in fear.

The room door was flung open, crashing loudly against the wall. Amy Lamotte bounded through, gun up.

Three shots pierced the air.

One shot found home, striking his shoulder, sending him reeling backwards; right out the room's third floor window. The curtains parted behind him, and he was gone, his boot the last visible part of him as he plunged towards the street below.

Amy was breathing heavily, her chest heaving. She turned to Louisa. "Are you okay?"

Louisa forced herself to her feet, nodding. "He caught me off-guard." Her voice was coming right through the nose; she had been shocked, forced to the limits of her training. "He shouldn't have. Are you okay? What happened in Marseilles after I left?"

"The other man is dead," Amy said. "His name was Jordan Turley. He could dehydrate objects, even the atmospheres of rooms." Amy shuddered. "He's dead."

"What's our next move?"

Amy reached into her coat, and dumped a thick file on the coffee table, marked '_Personnes des __particulier_'. "We go through this file, one entry at a time. Then we follow 'em up."

Deep down, Amy knew that Jordan's death meant only one thing. War.

**

* * *

LOS ANGELES, CA

* * *

**

Brendan shook with rage when he read the report from Lachlan Dickson. He had survived the fall in Tangier, landing on the canvas roof of a passing truck. He'd crawled to an internet cafe, and made his report online. Jordan dead, having failed to kill Amy. Louisa Rietdijk was also still alive.

Brendan put his face in his hands.

"Sir," came the bubbly voice of his new assistant from the desk intercom. "I have an urgent call for you from Sophie Freeman."

Brendan frowned. Why would Sophie call him? They'd already checked, and her location, though compromised, was being watched. Sophie was not supposed to have any idea. "Put her through," Brendan said, not allowing his confusion to seep into his voice.

There was a brief click.

"Sophie," Brendan said, amiably. "How are you? How are the kids?"

"I'm fine," Sophie Freeman's voice, with a slight Texan lilt, came over the intercom. "Monica and Kyle are as well. You said I was to contact you if I drew anything related ti you."

Brendan's breath caught in her throat. "I did."

"I've drawn something." Sophie said. Brendan immediately tapped a few buttons hidden under the desk; the inbuilt flat LCD screen rolled upwards on its silent motors, and Brendan opened a drawer, placing the streamlined wireless laptop and matching mouse on the mahogany surface. "Can I send it to you?"

"I'm just getting everything set up," Brendan said, as the computer cycled through its warm-up sequences. "Email it to me, as a file attachment."

"Right," Sophie answered, and she groaned slightly as she did what she had to do.

Brendan opened his email inbox just as the message arrived. He opened the attachment, and waited as it loaded. It was a large digital photograph of one of Sophie's prophetic lead pencil drawings.

"Did you get it?" Sophie asked, but Brendan was speechless. "Hello? Brendan? What is it?"

He ignored her. On the screen, before him, rendered in graphite, was his worst nightmare. Lauren was in his arms, her eyes staring sightlessly upwards. And, over her shoulder, stood a woman, smoking gun in hand. The woman's identity hit Brendan like a slap to the face. Amy Lamotte.

Amy Lamotte was going to kill his wife.

His mind, spinning rapidly through all the options, landed on one. War.


	5. Rooftop

_**

* * *

**_

ROOFTOP

* * *

**THE PRESENT DAY

* * *

**

In Accra, Ghana, Reilly Carroll, Grace Scott, Priscilla Adei-Cardwell and her bodyguard known only as The Ghanaian, boarded their flight bound for Addis Ababa, and from there to India. The next leg of their journey around the world was about to begin.

In a warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin, just as the shockwave from the bomb planted by the warehouse's former occupants reached the retreating forms of Erin Eedy and Kristen McQualter, the former tackled the latter aside.

And, as the flames consumed the doorway and licked at the sky, a form shot like an arrow into the sky, a trail of smoke left hanging in the air after it.

In Tangier, the door of Louisa Rietdijk's hotel was flung open, crashing loudly against the wall. Amy Lamotte bounded through, gun up. Three shots pierced the air.

Lachlan Dickson was hit, and thrown through one of the room's windows. The curtains parted behind him, and he was gone, his boot the last visible part of him as he plunged towards the street below.

They recovered from the attack quickly, news of Amy's battle with the dehydrator in Marseilles flying between them. Finally, Louisa got a chance to ask a question.

"What's our next move?"

Amy reached into her coat, and dumped a thick file on the coffee table, marked '_Personnes des __particulier_'. Unique people. "We go through this file, one entry at a time. Then we follow 'em up."

Deep down, they both knew that these attacks meant only one thing. War.

"Did you get it?" came the voice of Sophie Freeman, but Brendan was unable to speak. "Hello? Brendan? What is it?"

He ignored her. On the screen, before him, rendered in graphite, was his worst nightmare. Lauren was in his arms, her eyes staring sightlessly upwards. And, over her shoulder, stood a woman, smoking gun in hand. The woman's identity hit Brendan like a slap to the face. Amy Lamotte.

His mind, spinning rapidly through all the options, landed on one. War.

**

* * *

**

GREENLAND BUILDING  
**LOS ANGELES, CA

* * *

**

**THREE MONTHS AGO

* * *

**

Chambers' eyes widened, as a burst of the future came to her once again. But it was too late. Destiny had been decided. Louise Greenland struck her at a dead run, and, together, they sailed off the rooftop.

"No!" Reilly Carroll screamed as he dropped the katana bestowed upon him by Kristian Darroch.

As one, Reilly, Grace Scott, Amy Lamotte, Julian Neave, Erin Eedy and Brendan Wunderlich surged towards the edge of the Greenland Building's roof, but it was already too late. Louise Greenland and Cathy Chambers had disappeared into the night.

Tears streamed from Grace's eyes, as the six stood at the edge of the roof, looking down into the darkness. Reilly glanced back, and saw an invisible force push the door open, and slam it shut behind them.

Taylor Benn was gone, off to find the woman he had declared his love for just moments before.

Reilly turned back, and, together, the six survivors stared down into the darkness, into the gulf of the unknown. Silence reigned supreme. Shock was the only constant in the emotions of the six. All were looking unblinkingly down at the street far below. Destiny had just come full circle; the second sacrifice had been made. Louise Greenland was dead, and so was Chambers. It was over.

Grace Scott, Reilly Carroll. Julian Neave, Erin Eedy. Brendan Wunderlich and Amy Lamotte. Six people whom destiny had chosen, had brought together over the course of years, decades.

Then, as one, they were hit by the magnitude of what had happened.

Only one stepped forward to take charge. Brendan Wunderlich turned to them, and said, loudly, powerfully, "Erin, are you up to flying?"

The auburn haired Manhattan native just looked at him mutely, but she managed to nod.

"Take Julian down there, and secure the area. If there were any witnesses, I don't want them to remember what they've seen. Let's keep law enforcement away until we can clean up." Brendan turned to the others, to Reilly, Grace and Amy, as Erin took hold of Julian and drifted into the cold night air, then down, down towards street level. "Amy, take Reilly and Grace to their rooms, then rejoin me in my office."

Amy nodded. She put a hand on Grace's elbow. Grace turned her head to face Amy, a strange expression creasing her eyes. "What's wrong?" Reilly asked, putting a hand on Grace's shoulder.

"I feel so…" Grace said, her voice taking on an eerie, dream-like quality. "I feel so _light_."

Her knees buckled, and she fell, her eyes rolling upwards. Reilly caught her before she hit the ground, and put a hand behind her knees, swinging her up, keeping her off the gravel rooftop.

"Let's get her inside," Amy said, and Reilly nodded.

Brendan got the impression he had been expecting a collapse; Grace's power was still untamed, and each face-off with Chambers had been more draining than the last for the budding empathic telepath. The three disappeared through the broken door down into the Greenland Building.

Brendan turned back to the night, and looked down onto the street.

* * *

**ERIN EEDY & JULIAN NEAVE

* * *

**

Julian's feet touched the asphalt before Erin's; he landed a bit unbalanced, but he managed to steady himself before Erin landed, staggering as her feet hit the pavement. They'd dropped pretty fast from the rooftop, but they'd slowed down for the last couple of floors, landing in the street not far from a yellow taxi cab.

"What the hell?" came an awestruck voice from behind them.

Erin and Julian, neither having said a word, turned to see a black man, wearing a cab driver's uniform, eyes wide, who had obviously just seen them land.

Julian moved faster than Erin's eyes could follow; he leapt atop the cab driver, forcing him to the ground, placing a hand on either side of the man's head. A second later, the man was unconscious, Julian's power of mental manipulation taking immediate effect. Julian straightened, and turned back to the cab.

Erin followed his gaze, and for the first time got a good look at the vehicle. It was as though something massive had fallen from above and crashed into the car's roof, shattering the windows, caving in the roof.

Erin rounded the car, Julian followed.

What she saw on the other side made her knees buckle, and her mouth fall open in shock. A body, lying right in the street, face-down in a pool of their own blood. There was no doubt, from the blonde hair, who it was. Louise Greenland lay dead at Erin's feet. Erin had to swallow back bile. She turned to the side, blinking.

Greenland had seemed impregnable.

And now she lay dead.

"He's down," said Julian, appearing at her side. He caught sight of Greenland, and swore silently. He blinked, and looked back at the body. "It looks like something broke their fall midway down."

He looked at the cab. Blood oozed from the broken shards of metal, and dripped slowly onto the pavement.

"Tele—" Erin had to stop herself as the bile threatened to come back. She gulped it down, shook her head. "Telekinesis, maybe. As they fell, Chambers gives it one last push to land properly."

Julian nodded, and reeled back on his feet, obviously disturbed by the sight of the mangled body, barely recognizable as human, in the torn and twisted wreckage of the cab.

"We need to secure the area," he managed to croak.

Erin nodded, but she didn't move. Her eyes were fixed on Greenland's body, and she asked herself the same question, over and over again. What was going to happen next?

**

* * *

**

REILLY & GRACE

* * *

The sense of loss was nothing like Grace had ever felt; the world washed over her, carrying parts of her away, chipping away at the cavity that had been gouged within her. She realized that it wasn't Jake's death, and it wasn't Greenland's. It was Chambers'.

The woman who shared her ability was gone, crashed to Earth hundreds of metres below, no doubt in exactly the way Sophie Freeman's drawing had predicted. In the top of a taxi cab, Greenland's brains dashed out on the pavement beside it. Tears rolled down Grace's cheeks as she was carried by someone. She tried to lift her head, to focus her gaze, but nothing happened. She could hear everything; people pushing, someone shoving open a door.

And then, finally, quiet.

The door closed again, and Grace realised she was no longer moving. Desperate to stop the loss ravaging her, she reached out with her ability, and felt a familiar presence not a metre away, their entire aura consumed with fear, worry about her, and her alone. It was a pure, unyielding love; not a husband's love, or a boyfriend's love. A brother's love. She knew in an instant who it was.

She opened her parched lips, and tried to speak. "Reilly." She groaned, and she felt his hand on her forehead.

"It's okay," she heard him say, and she felt something on her bottom lip. The rim of a glass. Reilly tipped it back, and cool, refreshing water flowed downwards. Grace swallowed three huge gulps before the glass was taken away.

Her eyes opened fully, and she was suddenly aware. The loss was gone as quickly as it had come. She remembered who Chambers was. What she had done. And she promised herself that she would never allow anything like that to become of her, so long as she lived.

She was in her room in the Greenland Building, the opulently decorated sleep chamber she had been assigned after she had declared her intention to stay in Los Angeles and learn from Greenland.

Reilly was standing at the side of her bed, concern creasing his eyes. He touched her forehead, brushing errant strands of hair out of her eyes. "Is there anything I can?"

Grace shook her head, and realised for the first time that she crying. Tears literally streamed off her face. "Just stay," she said, through sobs that wracked her entire body. And Reilly sat on the bed beside her, and pulled her into a tight embrace.

She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, sometime later. He laid her gently on the bed, her head on the pillow, and he sat on a chair by the room's panoramic window, to wait for the sun. He drifted off to sleep, too.

And that's when the nightmares started.

**

* * *

**

BRE**NDAN WUNDERLICH & AMY LAMOTTE

* * *

**

He'd always heard of people claiming that life was too fast; that there wasn't enough time to sniff the roses anymore. Brendan Wunderlich disagreed with that assessment. He was living proof that it was wrong. A superpowered man working for an underground organisation of people with superpowers like his, he had still found time to get married. To buy a house in Simi Valley.

He and Lauren had often spoken about children someday. Someday soon, of course. They argued about bills, about where to eat on his rare nights off. Occasionally, they lay awake at night and argued baby names for a few hours.

He hadn't seen her in weeks. Almost a month.

But the last time he had checked, her two most favourite names in the world were Maggie and Joseph. He hated both.

It was strange, he realised, that in a time such as this all he could think about was her. He had gone immediately to Greenland's massive office, and started to make the phone calls; the foreign agents, the agents in other parts of the country. And one to a homestead just outside of Accra, Ghana. Something had told him to take charge, and he did.

"Brendan?"

Jerked from his reverie, Brendan swung about. Amy Lamotte stood in the doorway, and Brendan realised how tired he was. He tired they all were. "How are Carroll and Grace?

"They're in Grace's room. She's breathing, at least."

Brendan nodded. "All right. We have three bodies we need to dispose of, and only four people to do it. I've called in four agents, who should arrive no later than tomorrow afternoon. We'll have most of the organisation here inside of the week."

Amy hesitated, frowning.

"You have a question, Amy?" Brendan asked, and something in his voice chilled him to the bone. It was something simply... _Greenland_.

"Who put you in charge?"

Brendan's eyes narrowed. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly," Amy shrugged."I think it's important. The organisation just lost its founder and leader. Whoever takes charge here, takes charge of the organisation."

"Amy," Brendan said, soothingly. "I'm not trying to take control of the organisation. It's just, Jake Nicholson is dead, Abby Cone is dead, and Louise Greenland is... well, she's dead, too. That leaves you and I as the most experienced members of the organisation. What we need right now is to work together, not fight one another. We have to keep the organisation together."

Amy's gaze smouldered, and she held up her palms. The familiar, frosty blue glow gathered at her fingertips, and swirled inwards, fully encircling her hands.

"Amy," Brendan said, more sternly than he would have liked. "Stop."

It was as if something in that last word got through to her. The mists of her power died away, and she let her hands drop. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm on edge. I just... I don't trust you. Or anyone here, for that matter."

Brendan frowned a little. "That was bizarrely honest of you."

"It's been a bizarrely honest night," Amy said with a shrug. "I'm going to catch some sleep. I'm exhausted."

Brendan nodded, remembering the light show that was the battle between the freezing ability of Amy and the pyrokinesis Chambers had killed Abby Cone for. "I bet you are." She turned to go. "Amy?" Brendan said.

At the door, Amy stopped. "Yes?"

"Thanks for saving us all tonight."

Amy smiled, her exhaustion coming through. "That's what we're all here for." And she was gone

By morning, Greenland, the taxi and Chambers had disappeared. The street was clear, the cab driver a victim of a brutal mugging. Jake Nicholson's body had also been removed; he and Greenland were now at a discreet mortuary, and Chambers' body had been sent to a secret Greenland Corporation facility somewhere in the Mojave Desert, for research.

Brendan had not gotten a wink of sleep. He'd sat through the reports of Erin and Julian, and then had gone over the digital images they'd taken of the cab, and of Greenland's body. There was no doubt in Brendan's mind that Sophie's final prophecy had come true.

He drummed his fingers on Greenland's mahogany desk. He still hadn't sat in the chair behind it; doing so would mean he was taking Greenland's place. He wasn't ready to do that.

So he sat on the side of the desk he had sat on when he'd first arrived. He had no idea how soon he'd be permanently on the other side.

The six gathered again the next morning in Greenland's office. As large and empty as it had seemed before Greenland's desk, a cavernous space occupied solely by the mahogany desk and accompanying chairs, it felt so much smaller without Louise Greenland's larger-than-life presence.

Brendan had brought in three folding chairs to supplement the three chairs already there; he, Grace and Amy took the swivel chairs, Reilly, Julian and Erin occupying the folding chairs.

Ne noted, in an odd way, that he and Amy were facing opposite each other. Memories of their confrontation the night before came to him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his throat saw and dry. "Today is going to be a hard day. Yesterday, we all lost friends and allies. Today, we'll have to clean this all up. The bodies are gone; taken to a discrete mortuary. Greenland's family has already contacted me. Her son will be arriving in a few hours."

"She has a son?" Erin asked, clearly surprised.

Brendan nodded, and went on "Five other operatives of the organisation will be arriving today to help us with the clean-up. Over the coming weeks, the entire organisation will come together. Then we'll decide what to do in a more permanent way."

"Okay," Erin said, a question forming n her lips. "Who's in charge now?"

Amy and Brendan traded looks. "We are." Brendan answered.

"Both of you?" Grace asked incredulously.

Amy shrugged. "We're the longest serving members of this organisation. When the rest of us are brought here, we'll make a final decision then."

"Now," Brendan said, ignoring the looks of surprise on four out of six faces in the room. "We need to decide what happens over the next couple of weeks. Reilly, if I can call you that, I believe you were headed back to New "

"Now," Brendan said, ignoring the looks of surprise on four out of six faces in the room. "We need to decide what happens over the next couple of weeks. Reilly, if I can call you that, I believe you were headed back to New York."

"That's correct," Reilly said. "You can all call me Reilly if you want," he added, with a shrug. "I'd still like to go, if that's okay. My friend was killed there, and the police are finally releasing his body."

"Okay," Brendan said. "I'll book you a flight as soon as we're done here."

"I have an additional thing to add here," Amy interjected. "Jake Nicholson's funeral. His last living will and testament names a cemetery in Las Vegas. We need somebody to escort his body over state lines."

"I'll do it," Julian said instantly.

Amy nodded. "Good." She looked at Brendan. "That's about it. Grace, what do you intend on doing?"

She shrugged. "I want to stay for a little while. I just need to figure things out. Then I want to visit my mom. Before we do that 'round the world thing."

Brendan looked from Grace to Reilly. "You guys still want to do that?"

They nodded.

He smiled. "Excellent. We will have to put off your trip for a few months, maybe three. Just while we get everything under control. Is that okay?"

Reilly never got a chance to answer. There was a strange, quiet whip-crack noise. All six spun about, to find two people standing in the centre of the room. The curly-haired, slight, beautiful frame of Sophie Freeman, and the tall, long-haired Kristian Darroch.

Two guns appeared, one from Erin, one from Julian, and Amy's hand glowed blue.

Kristian and Sophie turned towards them, both clearly confused. "Where's Greenland?"

Brendan lifted his hand, and Julian and Erin lowered their guns. The glow of Amy's ability disappeared. He stood. "She's dead."

Kristian's jaw dropped, but Sophie stood firm. "And Chambers?"

"Also dead," Brendan answered. "Greenland knocked her off the roof. They both died when they hit the ground. Well, Greenland did. Chambers struck a taxi."

"So it was true," Sophie said, wonder in her eyes. "The drawing came true."

"It did," Brendan answered.

Before he could go on, Reilly jumped to his feet. "What the hell did you two do with Monica? And that boy?"

"They're fine," Sophie answered. "They're waiting for us in Monterey." She turned to Brendan. "I want the keys to the beach house."

Brendan smiled. "Of course you do." He crossed to Greenland's desk. For the first time, Reilly and Grace got a good look at it. It was covered in manila files, papers spilling out of them. He moved a file aside, and picked up a set of keys. "Sophie, can you stick around for a while? I need to talk to you."

Sophie looked to Kristian, taking the keys off Brendan and passing them to him. "It's okay. I'll get up to Monterey soon enough."

Kristian nodded, and was gone with another crack.

* * *

Grace had needed to get away from them all, away from what had happened the night before, what had happened since. So she went back to the source, to the rooftop where destiny had come full circle. Grace drew the blanket around her as she stepped into the cool air, the sky a cloudy blue-grey so often found when the son first starts to rise.

She padded barefoot across the concrete, shivering in the cold. She felt the presences of her friends and her allies; she felt the point where Monica and Kyle and Sophie had been teleported away by Kristian Darroch. She detected the presence of Taylor Benn and Emily Coleman, where the two had embraced. She felt Amy Lamotte, where she and Chambers had circled.

She felt Greenland as she fell, taking Chambers with her.

She was about to close her eyes, to reflect, when she saw something glinting on the ground. Moving towards it, she saw it was the katana, the Japanese samurai sword, that Kristian had picked up from a gift shop in Tokyo International Airport. She bent down, and touched the hilt. A flash of Reilly's presence came to her. She looked down the blade's length, to the blood-stained tip.

She saw the blade plunged through Chambers' stomach, in what was supposed to be the killing blow. Instead, the coup de grace had come minutes later...

"Who are you?"

The voice cut like a knife through Grace's unprotected heart. It hadn't been said with any hint of hostility. But something about it cut her deeply. And the presence was unfamiliar. She turned to the voice, katana in hand. A blonde man, about medium height with a well-toned but slim body was standing near the door back down into the building. His hands were held loosely to the side, and Grace caught sight of what looked like a spark dance between two fingers.

"I'm Grace Scott."

"Did you work for my mother?"

It was then Grace noticed his reddened eyes, and the sadness radiating off him. She shook her head. "I didn't."

He nodded. "But you knew her?"

Grace swallowed, and said "I did. Not very well, though, only for about two weeks..."

The man gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "Nobody knew Louise Greenland well. Not my father, and not me, let alone somebody she hadn't known for longer than a couple of weeks." This time, Grace definitely caught sight of a spark trailing across the man's hand.

"I'm sorry," Grace said, and she meant it.

"I'm not," the man said, and threw out his hand. A burst of brilliantly blue light emanated from his hand; a lightning bolt streaked through the air, and ended just as quickly. He dropped his hand, and lowered his chin.

Seconds passed, neither moving.

He looked up again, the tears gone. "My name is Lachlan Collins."

"I'm Grace Scott," Grace repeated. "I take it you're like me."

He lifted his hand again, and miniscule bolts of electricity encircled his clenched fist. "You mean this? More than you'll ever know. Let me guess," he said, looking her up and down. "Some kind of mental ability. Persuasion, clairvoyance."

Grace was starting to get unnerved. "Empathic telepathy."

Lachlan's eyes widened. "Like Chambers."

Grace balked, but nodded. "Yeah, my _power_ is like Chambers'. _I'm_ nothing like her."

"They all start out that way," he said with a shrug. "But all of them end up turning against you. They get drunk on their own power... but you. You I feel there's something different about."

He threw his hands out, and lightning seemed to consume his body. Grace turned away, shielding her eyes. Then it stopped. She looked up.

He was right in front of her, looking directly into her eyes. "You have more power than you know what to do with. Let me help you."

She had nothing to say, except "Yes."

The man smiled. "I'll meet you here, tonight."

* * *

**BROOKLYN, NY

* * *

**

"This is it," the morgue attendant said. He grabbed the door of the tray, and pulled it open. The slab flew out, and Reilly's breath escaped him with a gasp. One the tray was a white sheet, and beneath it, he knew, was his old friend and one-time mentor, Mark Oakwood.

The attendant reached for the top of the sheet, and pulled it off.

Reilly's knees almost gave out. "Yeah." Reilly nodded. "That's him."

"Is he here?" came a loud, woman's voice. "Reilly!"

Reilly turned, the voice unfamiliar. As soon as he saw the woman, he recognised her. Oakwood's wife of twenty-seven years. "Oh my God, Reilly. Is he here?"

Reilly nodded, and inclined his head towards the slab. The woman came to a stop a metre from the slab. "Oh my God," she repeated. "Oh my God." As the woman slumped to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks, Reilly backed away, unable to handle the raw outpouring of grief.

Fifteen minutes later, he stood outside the identifying room, his eyes red, raw, when the woman exited, obviously having just recovered from a bout of hysterics. Her voice was quiet, tired.

Reilly straightened when he saw her.

"The funeral is next week in Berkeley." She said simply, before walking off, leaving Reilly standing alone, staring mutely after her.


	6. The Last Name

_**

* * *

**_

THE LAST NAME

* * *

**REILLY CARROLL  
****MONTEREY****, CA

* * *

**

The drive from Los Angeles had been hellish, as had the flight back from New York. He'd stayed a night in Oakwood's apartment, his sleep plagued by nightmares, and had cleared whatever residual _stuff_ he'd left in Oakwood's apartment, and had driven back to JFK, with an appointment to go to Oakwood's funeral in Berkeley in a week. He'd boarded the flight, and landed in LAX.

A brief meeting with Brendan and Amy, and Reilly had set off to prepare for his first mission for them; meeting the last person on Oakwood's list. A woman by the name of Adriana Lions who lived in Minnesota.

Grace had left, he'd been told, the day before, off to 'discover her potential'. Though concerned, Reilly hadn't pushed the matter, instead deciding to travel to Monterey, to try and recruit Monica to come with him on one final trip together, to meet another Carrier.

And now there he was, at the gate leading into Monterey's renowned Seventeen Mile Drive, a scenic route snaking through acres of the most beautiful coastline on the Central Californian coast. The area, though a national park, featured several very expensive private residences, country clubs and a world-renowned gold course at Pebble Beach. The Parks worker in the gate booth stepped out, and Reilly swapped him five dollars for entrance to the Drive and a map.

Reilly tossed the map onto the passenger's seat, and accelerated onto the Drive.

He ignored the tourist stops, the lookouts, the picnic areas, skirting the Drive, glancing every now and then inland, hoping to see the house.

Finally, he saw it; a beautiful, cosy looking beach house, about fifty metres from the beach, across the Drive from the surf. A high, pointed roof, two stories high. The building was a metre or so off the ground, resting on stones and mortar. It had an elegant style to it, mixing old world with new.

Reilly turned up the driveway, coming to a stop just in front of the house.

He reached down, popping the boot, and slid out of the car. He walked to the back of the car, and opened the boot, reaching in and pulling out the sheathed samurai sword given to him by Kristian Darroch.

There was a crack, and Reilly jumped, lifting the sword.

Kristian had appeared behind him, a gun out and pointed at Reilly's chest. "Oh," he said, when he realised who he was threatening. "Sorry. I thought you might have been one of them."

Reilly nodded, understanding. "In a way, I guess I kind of am. I brought this for you," he said hefting the sword. "And I came to see Monica."

Kristian took the sword and smiled. "Thanks. Monica's inside." Kristian led the way towards the house, and up the front steps, to the large, glass-paned door. He opened it, and stepped aside, allowing Reilly entrance.

"Kristian," came Sophie's voice from beyond the house's lobby. "Who is it?"

"It's Reilly!" Kristian shouted.

The house seemed oddly unoccupied, as if too clean, but with too much dust lying everywhere. Sophie's head poked through a door, and she smiled at Reilly. "Hi. Are you here on Brendan's orders, or just for a visit? Oh," she added, seeing Kristian's sword. "They gave that back?"

"Yeah, I brought it," he looked at Kris. "Thanks, by the way. It probably saved Grace and I."

"Oh," Kristian said, smiling. "You're welcome. I have some moving in to do, so, please excuse me."

"Go right ahead," Reilly said with a shrug. He turned back to Sophie. "How's Monica?"

"Yesterday, once we landed, she went into a video store, signed up and rented ten kung fu movies. She's been watching 'em like crazy," Sophie said, leading Reilly into an expansive lounge room with a panoramic window overlooking the beach and the waves lapping the sand. "She's been able to copy every single thing she's seen. She had to break a lamp before I told her to chill. And I'm thinking of buying a dog."

Reilly laughed. "Any particular reason?"

Sophie shrugged. "I want a dog." A beat. "Here she is."

They rounded a half-wall dividing the room, and stepped into a small sitting area. In front of a giant plasma screen TV on crossed legs, Monica Wilkie was staring unceasingly at Michelle Yeoh whirl about on the television, not taking her eyes off the screen, being watched with barely hidden admiration by Kyle Smith, the small thirteen-year-old keeping a close eye on her every move.

"Monica," Sophie said, and the girl glanced up as she cut her concentration was cut by Sophie's voice. "You have a visitor."

"Who?" Monica asked. Then she saw Reilly.

She leapt to her feet, surging forward, and she hugged Reilly hard. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. "Hey," Reilly said, staggering as she almost pushed him over. "It's good to see you too, Wilkie."

"Shut up," Monica said, releasing him and stepping back. "Why are you here anyway?"

"I was just wondering if you'd like to come on a little adventure with me."

**

* * *

**

GRACE SCOTT & LACHLAN COLLINS  
**LOS ANGELES, CA

* * *

**

"Try again!" Lachlan Collins shouted. "What's my middle name?"

Grace Scott stared at him, her eyes wide, a manic glint shining behind them. She closed her eyes, extending her thoughts into those of the man before him. She felt so much, a rush of sensations and power like she couldn't imagine.

"What is it?" she heard him roar.

She pulled herself back in, searching for the one thing she needed to defeat him, to overcome him in this instance. His middle name.

Then she felt it. A white hot energy cut through her thoughts and she was thrown backwards, her concentration completely gone. She spun across the ground, and her eyes snapped open. Lachlan was holding out his hand, panting loudly, a spark shimmering across his palm.

"Good," Lachlan said, still panting. "But you still let me use my power."

"I thought I was going for your middle name," Grace said, trying to sit back up. Pain jolted through her as she tried to move. "You weren't supposed to use your power to block me."

"I think I _was_ supposed to." He answered. "I never said I wouldn't. Try again."

Grace shut her eyes, concentrating. "Here I come." She forced herself into his mind, searching through every corner of his thoughts, looking for answers.

She saw flashes of his thoughts, and memories. She saw Greenland, younger, smiling proudly in the dead of night, and felt Lachlan's rush of satisfaction. She saw a teen boy, running, a bolt of lightning cutting him down in mid-step. She felt Lachlan's grief over doing this, as the boy landed unconscious on the pavement. She felt his hatred as he shouted at an older Greenland, and a sense of relief as he stood on the rooftop, overlooking the place where his mother had died.

"NO!" Lachlan cried.

She felt the electricity burst outwards from him. Grace opened her eyes, and sent a though through their telepathic connection. His eyes snapped wide, and his knees almost gave out.

_STOP!_ She thought, and he did. The blue bolts of lightning died away. _What's your middle name?_

"Rhys," Lachlan answered, his voice scratchy, blank; entirely devoid of emotion. "My middle name is Rhys."

Grace cut the connection, and Lachlan sunk to his knees. He brought his hands up, and rubbed his eyes. "Good job," he said under his breath. "But you want to be careful when you try and force your thoughts on someone," he said, bringing his eyes up and looking at her. "You never know what you might force them to do."

"Should we go on?" Grace was surprised at herself. Had she really been so energized by her tiny victory?

"Not at the moment," Lachlan said, clearly exhausted

They were in Lachlan's penthouse apartment, the large, empty room they occupied formerly his entertainment area; all the furniture had been pushed up against the walls of the room. Grace had returned to the rooftop the night before, to find Lachlan already waiting for her. She had had no idea how he had gotten up there. Wasn't it supposed to impossible to get up to the roof without an access card?

It was then that he had explained the extent of his ability, electromagnetism. Not only could he launch bolts of electricity, he could create an electromagnetic field and then reverse the polarity, enabling him to hover.

He'd taken her down to the street below, a gentle levitating motion that had lasted for the few minutes it had taken to reach the pavement; she had wanted it to last forever. She could only imagine how it must be for Erin Eedy, soaring like an eagle.

Then he'd taken her to his apartment, worth millions of dollars a year.

He took her to dinner, and then back to the apartment. She'd gone to sleep, only to be roused before sunrise by Lachlan.

She had to admit to herself, that though he seemed cold and distant, he was rather good-looking, and seemed \genuinely interested in her.

After breakfast, they'd started their training.

Now here they were, at almost one o'clock in the afternoon, and Grace's control of her ability still hadn't gotten any better. In fact, she seemed to have closed herself off from it. Lachlan had explained how powerful she could be; she had the potential for power equal to or even greater than Chambers.

He'd asked her all about herself; her childhood, her time spent with Reilly, what her life's goals were. He left no room for Grace to ask questions, and she had the impression he would have dodged any questions she shot at him.

They had a quick lunch, before they got back to it.

Grace had a lot of ground to cover, and only three months in which to do it.

**

* * *

**

BRENDAN & AMY

* * *

"They're here," Amy Lamotte said, and Brendan Wunderlich glanced up as the first of four newly arrived agents of the late Louise Greenland's organisation entered the dead woman's cavernous office,

Both he and Amy still sat on the public side of the desk; both had refused to take Greenland's seat, though both hungered for the position it entailed.

The short, dark-haired form of Jordan Turley led the way, looking around somewhat jumpily as he entered. Lachlan Dickson, his long term partner, followed closely behind. Jordan, having the offensive ability of dehydration, was usually the lead in the field, and this translated into their day-to-day operations. Lachlan was the brains behind the pair, however, using his ability to find anyone he had seen to plan tactical operations.

Amy had never seen them in action, but she had seen glowing after-action reports, and had met them several times. She hadn't been surprised to learn of their romantic involvement, now it came down to it.

Brendan had worked with the two closely during his time in the organisation; he knew they would support him, no matter what.

"Welcome," Brendan said as they approached, just as the third agent entered.

Elena Moskovski, a short woman with a shock of brown curls and the ability to generate severe sonic shockwaves with her voice, followed Lachlan, smiling when she saw Brendan, and nodded curtly to Amy.

Finally, the thin, almost skeletal, form of Luke Bovill, a member for just three years, stepped through the door. It slid shut behind him. With the ability to manipulate his own musculoskeletal system, he could force himself through the smallest cracks in any surface. He nodded coolly to Brendan, and glanced out the corner of his eye at Amy, taking in her voluptuous figure.

Brendan smiled when he realised Bovill thought she hadn't noticed; Luke was, after all, easily the youngest in the room, and the most inexperienced.

"Just in case somebody doesn't know somebody," Brendan started. "I'll go through a round of introductions. Jordan Turley, Lachlan Dickson, this Amy Lamotte. Amy, this is Elena Moskovski and Luke Bovill. Do you guys know why you're here?"

Luke was the first to speak. "Because Greenland's dead."

Brendan winced, but Amy nodded. "That's exactly right. You four are the first agents to get back. We've called in everyone, from around the world, but it'll take a week or more to bring everyone together."

"So, why exactly are we here?" Lachlan said, confused.

"You're here because we're going to be determining the new direction we want this organisation to take in the future," Brendan explained. He glanced at Amy. "Including its new leader." He glanced at his wristwatch. "Excuse us, but we have a meeting."

There were some goodbyes, a promise of further information that night at dinner, and the four filed out of the room.

"Okay," Brendan said, looking at Amy. "Here we go."

Amy nodded, and stood from her chair, crossing to the nearest wall. She folded her arms, and leant against it, while Brendan straightened in his chair. The door opened again, and a woman, with long, dark hair stepped through, followed by a short, slim but powerful-looking man.

Brendan stood, smiling. "Senator, welcome."

Senator Daniel Stojanovski, a candidate for the Republican nomination for President in 2008, stood before him, impeccably dressed in a black suit shot through with light grey pinstripes. He wore a pressed white shirt and a saffron gold tie beneath. "Wunderlich. Where's Greenland?"

Brendan looked from Stojanovski to his tall, female companion; Laura O'Connor, Secret Service. He glanced back. "I'm sorry to tell you that Louise Greenland was shot and killed the other night in her home. Her personal bodyguard, Jake Nicholson, was also killed."

Stojanovski nodded, but Brendan could tell the death of his largest campaign contributor had most definitely fazed him. "Damn. What happened?"

"The LAPD put it down as a robbery gone horribly wrong."

"Is there going to be a memorial service?" Stojanovski asked, his concern clearly only cursory. All he wanted was his money; if anything, it was going to be the Greenland Corporation that got him elected President.

"No." Brendan said. "And I wouldn't worry about your money. The corporation has decided to keep funding your campaign."

"Oh," Stojanovski said, obviously relieved. "Thank you."

"We just brought you here to explain something to you," Amy said, revealing her presence to Stojanovski for the first time. As he turned to her, she lifted her hands, and they glowed blue.

"What the hell?" Stojanovski grunted.

"Laura," Brendan said, addressing Stojanovski's Secret Service woman. "You had better show him."

Stojanovski stared at Laura, shocked. "How do they know your name, O'Connor?"

Laura, her large, expressive blue eyes displaying sympathy for her boss. "You'll understand soon, sir." Suddenly, a light seemed to build up from under her skin. It sprang forth from her pores, a blue casing of energy enveloping her entire body, before hardening in a impregnable, flexible shield that fit to her perfectly.

"Mother of God," Stojanovski said, glancing from Laura to Amy to Brendan. "What _are_ you people?"

"This is the reason we're supporting you in your campaign, Senator." Brendan smiled. "We're like you."

**

* * *

**

DULUTH, MN

* * *

Reilly and Monica moved quickly up the path that snaked through the garden out the front of the home of Adriana Lions; the last on the list of Mark Oakwood's Carriers of the Gene, and the only one unidentified by either Oakwood, Reilly or Greenland's organisation.

It had been a long trip, first driving to San Francisco, having lunch at Reilly's mothers, then catching a plane t o Minneapolis. Then a three hour drive to Duluth. Monica had spent most of it talking, espousing the virtues of her brand spanking new iPod Video, purchased for her by Sophie once arriving in Monterey.

Reilly glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hand, a list typed list of the twelve names Oakwood had managed to identify via the Human Genome Project. It had been annotated with Reilly's notes, having met ten of them personally.

_Grace Scott – Brooklyn, NY. E/T_

_Erin Eedy – Manhattan, NY. (Greenland, flight)_

_Sophie Freeman – Syracuse, NY. (precognition; draws future)_

_Cameron Brown – Boston, MA.(Deceased, precognition; imminent)_

_Monica Wilkie – Sarasota, FL. (Enhanced muscle memory)_

_Kristian Darroch – New Orleans, LA. (Teleportation)_

_Adriana Lions – Duluth, MN. (NO INFO)_

_Emily Coleman – Boise, ID. (Greenland, missing, telekinesis)_

_Jake Nicholson – Las Vegas, NV.(Greenland, deceased, enhanced strength)_

_Amy Lamotte – Seattle, WA. (Greenland, AWOL, freezing)_

_Laura O'Connor – Phoenix, AZ. (Greenland???)_

_Louise Koller-Smith – San Diego, CA. (Deceased, enhanced memory (?))_

Brendan had told him not to concern himself about Laura O'Connor; she had been identified, and was currently in the employ of the Greenland Corporation. Somewhere.

"You ready?" Monica said, as they neared the woman's front door.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Reilly said, lifting his hand, and secreting the list into his jacket pocket. He clenched his fingers, and pounded the wood.

Monica smiled, shivering slightly with anticipation.

The door opened, a tall, willowy young woman, about twenty-five leaning through the door frame. Her thick, wispy hair tied in a tight ponytail. She wide, expressive eyes that radiated an easy intelligence. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Miss Adriana Lions?"

The woman looked from Reilly to Monica before answering. "Yes. Who are you?"

"My name's Reilly Carroll," he said, pointing to himself, and then to Monica. "This is my friend, Monica Wilkie. I'm a genetics student from the University of California, Berkeley."

"Can I help you?" she repeated, looking concerned.

"Actually, I think _we_ can help _you_." Reilly said. "Have you been experiencing anything unusual lately? Or, not even lately; for months, years?"

Adriana cocked an eyebrow. "How do you know? Have you been watching me?"

"No," Reilly said, emphatically. "We haven't been watching you. A professor at UC Berkeley, a friend of mine, postulated that certain people had developed variations in their genetic coding that allowed them to express certain traits that may be considered super-human."

Adriana smiled, knowingly. "Is this one of them TV shows?"

Reilly couldn't help laughing. "I've had that kind of reaction before. But, no, this isn't a _Punk'd_ thing. This is very much _real_."

"I'm one of those people," Monica interjected.

Adriana's face fell. "You're serious?"

Monica nodded. "I am. Reilly found me in Sarasota, and he saved me from a person who was hunting individuals like us, people with abilities. I can see any action once, and then copy it."

"Someone was hunting you?"

"She's dead," Reilly said, stepping forward. "It's a long story, Miss Lions, but Monica and I are here to help you deal with your ability, if you have one, and to offer you options."

"Which leads us to the most important question," Monica went on. "Do you have an ability?"

Adriana looked from Reilly to Monica, and back. "I might."

* * *

She'd shown them inside, gotten them lemonade, all of a sudden quite chatty. Finally, she sat down, on a couch across the living room coffee table from Reilly and Monica, and she got started, explaining what she thought might just be a superhuman ability.

"I'll start off by saying that it's nothing like flying, or telekinesis, or... what did you say Monica's ability was called?"

"Enhanced muscle memory," Reilly said, leaning forward slightly.

"Yeah," Adriana nodded, "It's nothing like that at all. It's kind of annoying actually."

"It doesn't matter," Monica said, quickly. "Whatever it is, it's awesome."

Adriana laughed. "Well, I first noticed it when my TV remote ran out of batteries." At this, Reilly's heart sank. Still, he kept his face neutral. "I put in new ones, and they wouldn't work. So I bought a packet of, like, ten. And they still wouldn't work. I used up the whole packet, but not one of them worked."

Reilly's disbelief was starting to creep into his expression, but Monica was still optimistic. "Go on," the girl said, nodding.

"So then I tried an experiment," Adriana said. "With my car. I started her up, just fine. Then I got out, opened the hood, touched the battery. I held my hand there for about thirty seconds, and I felt a little rush. And then I remembered, I felt the same thing with the batteries, when I touched them, except it was smaller, just like a little prickle on my fingertips. But the car battery... that was a _rush_. There's no other word for it. And the car just...died. Stopped working."

Reilly's eyes widened. "The battery was dead."

Adriana nodded, excitedly. "I couldn't believe it. I started thinking, maybe that _rush_ was the power from the battery, coming into my hand. And then I stopped thinking that, because, well, it's insane. But, now... I'm not so sure."

"Energy absorption," Reilly said. "I have to admit, not what I was expecting, but it's definitely not out of the realm of possibility."

"Is anything?" Monica asked, smiling broadly. "Wanna see my power?"

Adriana nodded. "Any action, huh?"

Monica nodded.

"All right then." Adriana said. "Have you seen _Kill Bill_?"

"Like, a hundred times," Monica answered. "Which part?"

"The part with the knife fight at the beginning," the woman said, a curious smile plastered across her face. Then she hesitated. "Or, I don't know..."

"How about I do this?" Monica said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her iPod. She scrolled through, before proffering it to Adriana. Adriana made a point of not touching the little device, but she watched the footage on the small screen intently. Something from a martial arts movie, Reilly saw, a series of twists and flips, each as intricate and varied as the next; a veritable Dance of the Seven Veils.

Adriana laughed disbelievingly. "If you think you can."

And then, to the surprise of Adriana, and Reilly, for that matter, Monica launched into a rendition of the leaps, and flips, and kicks, just as energetic, just as intricate, just as powerful. Then, she landed, and bowed, not even winded, not even in the slightest bit fazed, as though she had done it a million times before.

Adriana's jaw dropped.

Reilly clapped, laughing, as Monica bowed again.

"That... that's incredible," Adriana said simply, shaking her head. "Just...wow."

"Monica, can you give Adriana your iPod?" Reilly suggested, standing. "I just want to see this power in action."

Monica nodded, still evidently giddy from her showing off. She handed the iPod to Adriana, and Reilly sat beside their host, looking at the screen. The little green bar in the upper corner began shrinking immediately.

"Whoa." Monica said from above them, and she and Reilly exchanged surprised glances.

Finally, the battery was completely sucked dry. The screen went blank.

"Well," Reilly said, clearing his throat. "I guess the last name went pretty well." He pulled out the piece of paper, the list, and a pen, scrawling some information next to Adriana's entry. Two words: 'energy absorption'. Then, further off to the side, in capitals, he wrote 'LIST COMPLETE'.

**

* * *

**

LOS ANGELES, CA

* * *

"Thanks for taking me out to dinner," Grace said as she slipped into Lachlan Collins' dark penthouse, the mysterious blonde man sliding in behind her.

He turned on some lights as she walked into the training area they'd set up in the apartment's massive lounge room. Having eaten a fulfilling meal, she was ready to start practicing again.

Her getting Lachlan to reveal his second name had been merely taste of her ability's power; it seemed without depth, without limit.

"Eager, huh?" Lachlan said, following.

"Quite." Grace shot back. She was tired, yes, but she wanted to explore her ability, wanted to test the waters so to speak. "More of the same?"

"I'd like to try something a little more... relaxed." Lachlan said, and led Grace to the centre of the room. "Sit down, cross your legs."

She did, and he followed suit, sitting just half a metre from her.

"What are we doing?"

"I want you to reach into my mind, and find some memories that I've blocked."

"Blocked? Blocked how?" Grace queried.

"You know Julian Neave?" Lachlan asked. When Grace nodded, he went on. "He has, among other things, the ability to delete memories entirely. He can knock people out with a touch of his hands. And, he can bury memories. Hide them in someone's mind, to keep them from fully reliving the experiences contained within them. At my request, he exercised that particular portion of his ability on me."

"Why?"

"I have worked in my mother's organisation for a long time." Lachlan said, with a shrug. "I've done things I regret."

Grace nodded. "And now you want to remember?"

"Not particularly, but I think I should," the man said, sighing. "Besides, it gives us an opportunity to see if you can do it. I don't really want to go see Julian Neave at this point."

"Yeah," Grace nodded. She was about to say something along the lines of 'you shouldn't do this for me', but she knew she wanted him to; any exhortation to the contrary would have been an absolute lie. "If you want."

"I do." Lachlan said, taking her hands. He lifted them, placing her palms flat against his temples. "Now, close your eyes, and reach out with your mind."

Grace did as she was told; she sent a psychic probe emanating from her mind, into Lachlan's. "I'm in," she said, as his mind was laid bare before her. More emotions than before, more feelings, more memory, filled her from within. This was more than she'd absorbed in Tokyo, the day she'd collapsed for the second time, but she could handle it now. Still the feeling was pretty...intense.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Grace said, through teeth gritted in concentration. "Where's this memory?"

Then she saw it; a random collection of images, garbled, shrouded in a thick haze. Thick, but not impenetrable. Through the mess, she thought she saw a few familiar faces; Jake Nicholson, far younger, his hair darker; a red-haired woman she recognised as Abby Cone; she saw a flash of flame, and a smiling blonde woman, and a flash of lightning. Then, she saw Jake and Abby, together, looking on as though in hate.

Then the memory came back in a flash, the haze lifted.

She saw it all. The night in the train yard in Berlin, with Jake and Abby and a badly burnt boy. She saw Louise Greenland, far younger, cross the gravelled ground, and felt a surge of love towards her. She saw Greenland heal the boy. The boy ran, and she sent a bolt of lightning towards him.

Then it ended.

She opened her eyes and her hands fell away, severing the link. Lachlan was crying, his eyes jammed shut, tears running from the corners. Grace reached out, touched his shoulder.

He brushed it away, and stood, crossing to the windows overlooking the city, its multitude of lights shimmering in the darkness of the night.

Grace followed. "Hey," she said, as she got closer. "I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

"I hated that bitch," Lachlan said, his shoulders shaking with tears. "I hated her."

Grace wasn't sure what to say. "But, in that memory..."

"That bitch was used me since I was eight. Even when she had agents, she used me. You saw Abby and Jake in that memory. They were chasing that boy, and yet I was the one she made capture him." Lachlan closed his eyes, turning his head as fresh tears came. "And do you know who that boy was?"

Grace shook her head.

"Brendan Wunderlich." Lachlan said, shaking his head. "Brendan freaking Wunderlich, the man who's probably going to be in charge of the Greenland Corporation. Which means I can't work there anymore."

"Does he know?"

Lachlan nodded. "And he's made his peace with it. But I haven't."

She put her hand on his shoulder once more. "I'm sorry. But you have me."

"You just met me." Lachlan said, looking at her with a ghost of a smile.

"I don't need too long to figure out I like somebody, I guess," she said, one of her radiant smiles blossoming across her face. "You know, with the empathic thing going."

Lachlan laughed, wiping away tears. "I guess you're right."

Grace wasn't sure what happened next; she had a vague impression of leaning forward, before her lips met Lachlan's, and the next thing she knew, the two were locked in a long, passionate kiss.


	7. Bloodlines

_**

* * *

**_

BLOODLINES**

* * *

**

REILLY CARROLL  
**BERKELEY, CA**

* * *

Reilly Carroll stood among a crowd of slightly less than fifty, clad in a thick black overcoat. He recognised most of the people, faculty, alumni and students of UC Berkeley, and the family of Mark Oakwood, all there to celebrate his life, and commiserate his death. 

He'd been a brilliant geneticist, a standout on the world genetics stage, and a tenured professor at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. He'd lost it all when he'd decided to follow what many had considered a scientific wild goose chase. While working on the Human Genome Project, he'd begun mapping slight variations within human genetic coding, variations that may have produced what could be considered superhuman abilities. He had, of course, been right.

He'd met Grace Scott, his Patient Zero, and had compiled the list of twelve names, ordered by their proximity to his apartment in Brooklyn.

He'd been murdered before he'd had the opportunity to prove his hypothesis, of superpowered human beings, people on the cusp of the next step in the course of human evolution. Reilly, of course, knew he was right. Rapid cellular regeneration, empathic telepathy, flight, telekinesis, invisibility... Oakwood had postulated that people possessing these variations would be able to manifest all of these abilities.

Reilly longed, as he listened to the man's eulogy, given by his wife, to reveal that his friend, and one-time mentor, had been right.

It seemed as though the memorial service, undertaken in a shaded graveyard not far from the campus of the University of California, Berkeley, took forever.

Finally, the goodbyes were given, and the guests began to leave.

Reilly, in the line of invitees giving their condolences to the widow Oakwood, began to feel the emotion; he'd been numb to it throughout the service, but it finally dawned on him. People he knew had died; Nicholson, Greenland. But neither was his friend, not the way Mark had been.

Finally, he reached Oakwood's wife, and they shook hands.

"Reilly," she said. "I heard you've been in New York, following up on Mark's research. About the people with superpowers."

Reilly had been close to breaking his vow with Brendan to keep the powered individuals secret, but Mrs Oakwood's disdain shone through her even tone. "Yes, ma'am."

"Do me a favour," she said, "don't. It's a path to a lonely life, and an even lonelier death."

* * *

**GRACE & LACHLAN  
****MALIBU, CA

* * *

**The sounds of the waves crashing at the foot of the cliffs were a perfect counterpoint to the harsh caws of the seagulls. The sun hung high in the clear, flawless blue sky above them as they set across the grassy stretch of ground atop the high, twisted knoll of rock that jutted out into the Pacific, an ocean breeze rustling through the long ground.

Grace Scott and Lachlan Collins moved purposefully; Grace soaked in the beauty of the locale. The smell of salt on the air, the bird calls, the turquoise, lapping waves. In the distance was an oil rig, hidden by mists rising off the ocean.

Lachlan could barely move. It was as if his joints were stiff, and he kept his eyes forward, intent on his goal. He carried a small, gold-coloured urn; the remains of Louise Greenland, his mother.

Grace and Lachlan had spent the week together, training, seeing the sights of Los Angeles, talking. The night before, he'd surprised her by asking her to accompany him to the memorial service for his mother. That morning, he had left the apartment, and had come back a few hours later, asking her to come with him this time.

Now, here they were, at a beach in Malibu, about to say goodbye to the woman who had raised Lachlan, and the woman that had introduced Grace to her true potential.

They stood, now, at the edge of knoll, looking down into the water.

"Are you okay?" Grace asked, genuinely concerned.

He didn't answer; he merely stared into the ocean, the breeze ruffling his short hair. Finally, he nodded, and Grace placed a hand on his elbow. He swallowed, and he began to unscrew the lid of the tiny urn. He stopped.

"What's wrong?" Grace asked, taking a step closer.

"As much as I hated her," Lachlan said, choking up, "I loved her."

He unscrewed the lid, and flung out his hand; the contents of the urn, thick, grey dust, flew into the air. Caught by the breeze, the particles were lofted into the sky, and scattered across the waves. Louise Greenland's remains settled onto the water, and with another white-crested wave, were gone forever.

Lachlan's chin fell forward, his eyes closed.

Grace's hand slid from his elbow to his far shoulder. She pulled him close, and he buried his face in his hands. She heard no sobs, but she felt his sadness, reverberating through their rather-less-than tenuous link. A week of living together had strengthened their link, to the point where Grace could detect rather more than the usual flashes of emotion and trails of thought. It wasn't yet as strong as her link with Monica or Reilly, but it was growing.

He lifted his head, and patted Grace's arm. She let him go, and he took another step forward. For a second, Grace felt a rush of something coming through their link. He knelt, at the edge of the cliff, overlooking the ocean. For the first time, Grace noticed a piece of cloth that seemed to have draped over a rectangular object, its rear end slanting on an upward tilt. The cloth was secured by small pieces of duct tape.

Lachlan held out his hand, and tiny bolts of electricity burst forth, burning away the duct tape. He reached down, and pulled off the cloth.

A small, well polished plaque gleamed in the sunlight. The name Louise Greenland was engraved across the top. Beneath it, in smaller script, were the words 'She tried to Heal the World'. Under this were carved the dates of her life; 1951-2007.

Lachlan stood. He ran a hand through his hair, taking a step back. "We're done here."

* * *

**BRENDAN & AMY  
****LAS VEGAS, NV

* * *

**

"This is _not_ going to be a good day," Amy Lamotte said as the car she had ridden in with Brendan Wunderlich from the airport through Las Vegas to the Eternal Springtime Resting Home finally pulled up at the foot of the sweeping lawn that led up to the gravesite of Jake Nicholson.

"You think?" Brendan shot back sarcastically from beside her.

The two sat in the back seat, both appropriately dressed for mourning; all in black. Amy glanced out the tinted window, up the sweeping lawn.

At the top of the small hill, she could make out several dozen figures, all in black, all of them agents of the Greenland Corporation. Their driver opened a door, and in a flash was at Amy's door, opening it. The driver was Jacob Dwyer, a fairly new agent with the ability of enhanced speed; he could run faster than anybody on the planet. Almost faster than the eye could see. Amy stepped out into the sunshine of the Vegas morning, and Brendan followed.

Erin Eedy was already walking down from the gathering at the crest of the hill, clad in a long, ebony dress, her auburn hair pulled into a tight bun. She looked gorgeous, through her mascara was streaked by the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Everyone's here," she said. "Everybody except for Lachlan Collins. I don't know where he is."

Brendan nodded, and offered a sympathetic smiled. He put an arm over Erin's shoulder, and pulled her into a hug.

Amy looked away, leaving them in their moment, and she looked at the gathering; she made out Lachlan Dickson and Jordan Turley, standing apart from the main crowd chatting with Kristen McQualter, the forcefield generator.

Luke Bovill was talking with Mitchell Schofield, easily the largest person there. A native of Ireland, he had the ability to absorb kinetic energy, and then use it to increase his muscle mass. Amy had seen him punch straight through a wall. Julian Neave stood silently nearby, staring at something Amy couldn't see. Elena Moskovski was nearby, talking to Sophie Freeman, who was flanked by Kyle Smith and Monica Wilkie.

There were others, at least thirty, but Amy couldn't identify them offhand.

"You ready?" Brendan asked, appearing beside her.

Amy nodded. She hadn't known Jake all that well, but he was a good man, who had sacrificed himself every bit as much as Greenland had to stop Chambers.

The four of them, Brendan, Amy, Jacob and Erin set off up the hill, arriving less than a minute later at the gathering. There were greetings, and welcomes, and condolences, and Amy finally saw what Julian was staring at. Jake's coffin sat atop an open grave, in front of a half dozen rows of chairs. That was not, however, what Julian was looking at. He was staring at a woman, tall, long-legged, not too skinny, with light brown, highlighted hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, standing over a grave, a bouquet in hand.

Amy didn't recognise her, and didn't have time to think about it before she was shown to her seat by Erin. She was in the middle of the first row, Erin on one side, Jordan Turley on the other. Brendan stood before the congregation, behind a black silk covered podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Brendan said, and the group fell silent. "Good morning. We all know why we're here. It's because, a week ago, Jake Nicholson put a bullet through his own skull."

The silence became more a shocked absence of sound.

Brendan ignored it, going on. "He did not, however, commit suicide. He committed the ultimate sacrifice. He tried to kill Cathy Chambers, the greatest threat to people like us. She had murdered people, stolen their abilities, and had been captured by a group of us, including Jake, Amy, Erin Eedy and myself, right here in Las Vegas. Jake served as the bait, the cheese that lured Chambers into the mouse trap. It was sprung perfectly; we caught her, took her back to Los Angeles."

Silence still hung over the assembly, as they absorbed the new information. Many of them had only heard hearsay about the death of Jake Nicholson and their leader, Louise Greenland.

"Jake did chose not to trust Greenland, however; chose not to trust her decisions regarding Chambers. Jake determined that Chambers needed to be killed; it was too dangerous to keep her alive, as Greenland had been planning. He went to her cell, to kill her. Unfortunately, the drugs we had used to suppress her powers had worn off. Using telekinesis, she pulled him through two inch thick bulletproof glass, and was about to kill him, stealing his ability. He killed himself to prevent her from gaining enhanced strength.

"He was a hero in life; we all know that. We all experienced his courage, his honour, his loyalty, his valour and his skill. In death, however, he was every bit as much a hero," Brendan looked away from the group for a moment, and brushed away tears. "He sacrificed his life to save me, to save Amy Lamotte, Erin Eedy, Taylor Benn... half a dozen others. He put destiny on its course, a course that would lead to Chambers' eventual death. So, today, we gather to remember his sacrifice, and we remember the vision he had. His vision cannot be expressed in my words; none I have are eloquent enough to communicate it. There is a poem, however, that can begin to do it justice. It was Jake's favourite, I believe."

Amy hadn't expected to feel emotion like this; she was near to tears. Many people around her, including Turley and Erin, were crying silently, remembering their friend.

Brendan glanced down at the podium, once again brushing away tears. "To see the world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wildflower. To hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in a hour. With these words, we say goodbye to our friend, Jake Nicholson. He was, and is, and always will be, a true hero, who was committed to saving this world, to making it better through the betterment of people."

He placed his hand against the coffin, and bowed his head.

Then he turned, and walked away.

The coffin was in the ground, the grave had been filled in. Jake Nicholson's body was committed to the ground, his soul sent to wherever souls went after death. The funeral was long over, the mourners all moved on.

Only one remained.

The strong, hulking form of Julian Neave stood over the grave, shrouded in a long black trenchcoat.

"Lord Neave?"

It was a woman's voice, with a high-class British accent, much like his own. And she was using his title; no one used his title anymore. "Julian, Lord Neave the Third?" the woman pressed, stepping closer behind him, her voice silky, with a dash of seduction thrown in.

"Yes," he answered. He turned, and beheld the woman he had spied before the service. She dressed in a knee-length crimson waist coat, lined with black fur, the same shade as her bright lipstick. He looked her up and down. "And who are you?"

"I'm Molly Willoughby," she said, her hands tucked into pockets. "And I have a job offer for you."

Julian's eyes narrowed. "What kind of job offer?"

Molly removed her hands from her pockets, and lifted one, flexing her fingers. The gun beneath Julian's coat drifted into the air, pulled free from the holster by an invisible, inexorable force. He could only watch as the long barrel was twisted like a piece of extra-thick spaghetti right in front of his eyes, and fell to the grass.

"Sorry about that," Molly said, with a shrug. "I needed to make sure I couldn't be harmed."

"How did you do that?" Julian asked, staring wide-eyed at the twisted, useless hunk of metal that had once been his gun.

"I have the ability to influence magnetic fields," Molly said, with a shrug, though Julian saw right through the facade; everything she had done so far had been to draw him in. "My boss is very interested in your ability, however; stimulate mental functions, erase memories."

"How do you know about that?"

"My employer has his sources," Molly said, with a shrug. "Are you interested?"

Julian considered for a moment, turning away, staring at Jake's headstone. A few seconds later, he glanced back at Molly, and nodded once.

**

* * *

**

SAN FRANCISCO, CA

* * *

Reilly's father kept an immaculate home in north San Francisco, not far from the Presidio and Golden Gate Park, with a view of the Bay on one side, and the Pacific Ocean on the other. On a clear, one could see the Marin Headlands and Oakland. That day, however, was not a clear one.

The fog hung thick over the bay like a funeral shroud. Fitting, considering the day Reilly had had. He pulled his rental up in front of the house, a sprawling two story Edwardian mansion worth at least twenty million dollars.

The amount of space in that house was the envy of every San Franciscan. In a city where living area was truly at a premium, the house was truly an extravagance.

Reilly hated it.

As soon as he got out of the car, he heard the front door slam, and saw a small, blonde teenage girl bolt down the flawless emerald green lawn, shouting his name.

Reilly couldn't help but smile as she jumped into his outstretched arms. He hugged her tight, and swung her through the air.

Reilly's sister landed on her feet before him, smiling broadly. "Good to see you, too." Reilly said with a chuckle. As much as he didn't like his father, or the extravagance of this house, or any of his half dozen across the world, he loved his little sister. Half-sister, actually. Born thirteen years earlier to Reilly's father and his second wife, Georgia had been nine years Reilly's junior, and the apple of his eye.

"How's middle school?" he asked.

"Crap," Georgia answered. "Come inside, Dad's just on the phone."

"I can't actually stay too long. I have a plane to catch." Reilly said as he was led by the hand towards the house.

"Oooh. Where to?"

"Believe it nor not, Alabama."

Georgia stopped, and swung back towards him. "Why the hell would you want to go there?"

Reilly shook his head, and placed his hand on her forehead. "None of your business, whelp, now get me out of the fog."

"Oh," Georgia said, knowingly. "A girl."

"Shut up," Reilly growled in mock-anger. "What would you know?"

"Hey, you're not the only one with a love interest stashed away, you know." Georgia said, with a teasing wink.

"Not you?" Reilly said, scepticism in his tone. "Surely, not my darling, pure little sister has a boyfriend somewhere at that hole of a middle school."

Georgia laughed. "Not me, no. Dad."

Reilly rolled his eyes. "God, Georgia, I don't want to know. I'm here more for you than for him. So tell me about _you_, or I'll get back in the car and drive to the airport early."

"But, seriously, there's this woman, this Molly, always hanging around." Georgia pushed, as they finally got in through the front door. "She's leggy, glamorous, and really good looking. She's, like, English or something. Rich-sounding, too. Dad says she works for him, but she looks more like a supermodel or a Bond girl to work in his office."

Reilly cocked an eyebrow. "Is that right? Well, it's about as much your business as it is mine." Pause. "That is, not our business at all."

Now it was Georgia's turn to roll her eyes. "Fine."

She led Reilly through the foyer, past the sweeping stairs that led to the upper level, and into the wide expanse of the sitting room. Through vast picture windows, Reilly got a perfect look at the bay. Well, it would have been a perfect look, had it not been for the pressing fog.

Their father was CEO of the global conglomerate Blue Horizon, International, a business competing with elements of the Greenland Corporation in everything from medical research and genetics to food production and oil interests. Patrick Carroll, Reilly's father, was every bit the billionaire Louise Greenland had been, and then some.

"Reilly!" boomed a voice from the doorway.

Reilly looked up, and saw his father standing in the doorframe, a broad-shouldered man dressed sharply in a suit, looking as though he'd been born in it. He was shorter than Reilly, his hair thinning and white, but he still projected a powerful presence.

Standing, Reilly crossed the room, and the two men clasped hands. Reilly smiled as his father clapped him on the back.

"I heard you took a year off from Berkeley," Patrick said, indicating that he and Reilly should sit together near Georgia. "And there's been some unusual spending on your account."

"There's a girl," Georgia said, sticking her tongue out at Reilly.

He ignored her. Patrick went on, "Flights to Florida, rental cars in New York, in Sarasota, not to mention all that accommodation."

Reilly couldn't help rolling his eyes. "It barely made a dent in the balance, Dad, so don't start on me."

"I was just wondering what you were doing with all that money."

"Are you kidding me?" Reilly said, his ire rising. "I'm an adult, Dad."

"It's my money." Patrick said, simply. "And what's this I hear about an around the world trip?"

"Don't worry, 'you're' not paying for it," Reilly said, sarcasm dripping in his tone.

Suddenly, the door bell rang, echoing through the house. "I'll get that," Patrick said, standing. He crossed to the door, and cast a glance back at Reilly. "Don't think we've stopped talking about this, Reilly."

He left, and Reilly turned on Georgia. "Next time he and I talk, stay out of it, okay?"

Georgia glowered, but nodded.

Reilly stood, to walk back to the couch on which Georgia was sitting. He bumped his knee on a coffee table, though, and stumbled, a small object falling from his pocket.

Georgia picked it up, saying "What's this?"

She gasped in pain, and dropped the object; the small testing device Reilly had been given by Brendan, that tested the blood of any suspected Carrier of the Gene, determining whether or not they actually were Carriers.

"Damn thing pricked me," she said.

Reilly glanced at the device, leaning down to pick it up, while Georgia sucked on the pricked finger. The screen glowed green.

"What is it?"

Reilly couldn't speak. He simply stared from the device up to Georgia, not believing his eyes. Finally he managed to choke out "Nothing. Just something a company I'm working for is trying to develop."

"Oh." Georgia said, checking the injured finger, "You should tell them it pricks people. I'm going to put a bandaid on it."

She turned and left. Reilly picked up the device, numb with disbelief.

His little sister was a Carrier.

He had to tell his father. Reilly stood, and walked towards the door through which his father had disappeared. He heard voices drifting down the hall. His father's, an unfamiliar woman's, with a distinctive British accent, and another man's, one Reilly recognised but couldn't quite place.

Reilly got to the doorway to the mansion's cavernous, spotless kitchen. His father was standing with his back to the door, talking with a thin, long-legged woman, and a hulking blonde man. Reilly's breath escaped him in a gasp; Julian Neave was in his father's kitchen, with a woman that must be this Molly Georgia had talked about. His father was talking.

"... You've had enough with the Greenlands?"

Julian nodded.

"He and I have spoken," the woman said. "He has a lot of information on their operations, both domestic and international. And, apparently, your son is working for them..."

"Dad?" Reilly said, interjecting himself. "What's going on here?"

Patrick spun, eyes wide. "Molly," he growled.

The woman threw out a hand, and Reilly spun to get out of the room. There was the unmistakable noise of something heavy made from metal being dragged across the ground.

The two-door refrigerator was suddenly blocking Reilly's path, dragged from its spot against the wall. He turned, eyes wide. The woman, this Molly, was responsible for this, she had to be.

"What is this?" Reilly said, voice panicky.

"Time to put your ability to the test, Mister Neave," Patrick said.

Reilly's eyes, as wide as saucers, shifted from Patrick to Julian and back again, absolutely horrified. Julian took a few steps towards Reilly, and reached out, his hands grasping either side of Reilly's face.

The world went dark.

**

* * *

**

LOS ANGELES, CA

* * *

"Don't move, bitch!" The shout was loud, harsh, as though the speaker was about to lose control. His hand lashed out, striking a cowering woman across the cheek. "I said stay down!"

He was one of five, Grace could see; three standing guard over the customers, most of whom were pressed up against the counter. A fourth was clearing out the cash register, while the fifth was in the backroom, with the convenience store's manager, going through the safe. She and Lachlan had been driving past, on their way back to his penthouse, when something had piqued her power; a spike of fear, apprehension... it was a robbery. 

She and Lachlan were in the alley behind the store, peering in through a window. There were seventeen in all inside; five bad guys, twelve innocent bystanders.

"How are we going to play this?" Grace asked.

Lachlan shrugged. "I say we don't."

"What?" Grace hissed, as a gunshot rang out, followed by screams. She reached out with her power, and was comforted to find that no one was dead; one of the bad guys had just shot a hole in the ceiling. "We have to... these guys are psychopaths, those people are in danger."

"I can't just burst in there, willy-nilly, firing off bolts of electricity." Lachlan countered.

"And why the hell not?" Grace shot back. "Listen, I'm going in there, with or without you."

"Then you're going in _with_ me, then." He flung out a hang, before Grace could stop him; a blast of energy tore from his fingertips, sizzling through the air, before shattering the window.

All three of the guards spun around, guns up.

Grace focused on them, forcing her thoughts into theirs, the way she had with Chambers in Las Vegas. They were stunned; their eyes widened, they couldn't move. "Go." She whispered to Lachlan.

He was through the window in an instant, twisting left and right, letting off bursts of electricity with every step.

One man was caught in the chest, and sent spiralling over the counter, into his compatriot cleaning out the register. Both men collapsed in unconscious heaps. The other two guards opened fire, but Lachlan dove across the room, firing off blasts as he went.

Entire shelves were toppled, products spilling across the ground, with the force of the bolts striking surfaces. The two remaining men collapsed, their clothes sizzling.

The patrons, on the ground, didn't dare move; all of them just stared at Lachlan. The door to the convenience store swung open, and Grace stepped inside. All eyes swung to her, but she lifted a hand. "It's okay," she said, insistently. Lachlan realised she was using her power, inserting thoughts into the minds of the shell-shocked robbery victims. "Nothing strange happened. All of you should get outside."

They moved as one; Grace had to nimbly sidestep them to avoid been crushed in a stampede, as they pushed towards the door.

It was then that she realised how hard it was affecting so many minds at once. The sudden tiredness hit her like a train, ripping the breath from her lungs; her vision blurred, but she straightened... in time to see the fifth member of the crew kick open the door to the back room, Uzi in hand.

" Lachlan!" she cried in warning.

He turned, hand up, a small blast erupting from his skin. The electricity struck the man, sizzling across his body, and he dropped the gun. He stumbled a few steps back, but maintained his footing.

His eyes swung from Lachlan to Grace. "What _are_ you?"

_It's okay,_ Grace thought, pushing into the man's mind. _We're not here to hurt you. Go to sleep._

He looked to Grace, eyes wide. She could feel his terror; so strong it hurt.

_Go to sleep._ Grace repeated, and the man's eyes drooped, but he stayed conscious.

"What are you doing?" he asked, panting. "How are you doing this?" He sunk to his knees.

_Just go to sleep,_ Grace pressed, _just drift off and forget about the electricity._

The man shook his head, and Grace felt his panic spike through their telepathic connection. He moved faster than she would have expected, leaping for the Uzi, lying on the ground not a half a metre away from him.

"No!" Grace shouted, and sparks danced around Lachlan's fingers, in preparation for a bolt of power. _Put the gun down_, Grace thought as the man scooped it up.

"Get out of my head, freak!" he cried.

A burst of automatic gunfire tore through the air.

Half of the man's face was torn away, splattering blood and grey matter across the floor. The Uzi had been just centimetres from his temple when he pulled the trigger. He'd killed himself. Killed himself to get Grace's voice out of his head.

Grace fell to her knees, unable to tear her eyes away from his body. The reaction was visceral; she puked all over the floor, unable to control the reflex.

Lachlan could do nothing but stare at the dead man.**

* * *

**

SOMEWHERE OVER NEVADA

* * *

Reilly jerked awake to the groaning of four jet engines humming somewhere on the periphery of his sense. It took him a second to realise he was sitting upright on an uncomfortable chair, with the back of another looming before him. He was on a plane.

The problem was he didn't know how he'd gotten there.

He vaguely remembered seeing Georgia, and dropped something. His mobile, it must have been. Then he remembered his father coming into the room. Coming back in, that was.

Then, a forced but cordial conversation, before a goodbye and a drive to SFO.

Everything was shrouded in mist; he couldn't clearly visualise anything happening, which was odd. He did have a near photographic memory, but he had just been woken from a deep sleep. The more he woke up, the more the memories crystallised into a cohesive series of events.

Reilly shrugged, realising the plane around him was mostly empty. He was in a window row on the left side, and only his seat of the three was occupied.

Reilly put him his against the bulkhead, and stared out over the window as the plane flew through the clouds.

* * *

**LOS ANGELES, CA**

* * *

"What have I done?" Grace said, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere over LA.

It was night; she and Lachlan were back in his apartment, had been for several hours, but Grace had yet to move from the window, fixated on something out there.

Lachlan had left her alone at first, figuring she needed some space, but he had grown concerned. He rested a hand on her shoulder. "It wasn't your fault. You had no way of knowing that he'd do that."

Grace hiccupped slightly before answering. "I did. I should have known. It's happened before; someone desperate for me to stop messing with their thoughts..."

"You're not at fault here. You saved twelve lives."

"I killed a man, Lachlan."

"You told me you shot Cathy Chambers." Lachlan said, earnestly.

"That was different. She was evil. This guy, this guy... he was just a normal guy, and he was desperate. Now he's dead. He's dead because I pushed myself on him... I did what Chambers would have done." Grace turned to Lachlan, tears gathering in her eyes. "Oh my God. I did what Chambers would have done."

"Maybe," Lachlan said, taking a step closer. "But you're not her."

"How do you know?" Grace said, the tears flowing freely. "How do you know? How do _I _know?"

"I know, because..." Lachlan looked away for a moment, searching for the words. "Because I'm falling in love with you, Grace. I'm falling in love with you, and you were willing to sacrifice yourself to help those people. Willing to die to keep them safe. Cathy Chambers never would have done that. Never. But you did. You did, and I love you for it."

Grace spoke, tentatively; "I think... I think I love you, too."

Their eyes met, and then their lips; their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace, an embrace for then, and forever...


	8. Schism

_**

* * *

**_

SCHISM

* * *

**GREENLAND BUILDING  
****LOS ANGELES, CA

* * *

**

The auditorium of the Greenland Building was far more heavily occupied than the last time Brendan had been there. Then there had been seven people. Now, there were almost sixty, members of Greenland's organization, all. And every last one of them had abilities.

Brendan looked out, into the darkened, cavernous chamber, and he saw few people he could easily recognize, Erin, Jordan, a few others. There was, however, a conspicuous absence.

Julian Neave had yet to return from Las Vegas, and his mobile phone had gone unanswered.

Brendan decided to ignore Julian's absence for a moment, decided to concentrate on what was coming in the here and now.

Standing behind one of two podiums on the stage at the front of the auditorium, he was bathed in light, as was his soon-to-be opponent, Amy Lamotte. The conference had been designed so that he and Amy were at the judgment of the agents of the organization one of them would end up leading.

It had been decided that Greenland's successor would be decided by a popular vote, as her chosen successors, Jake Nicholson and her son, were unavailable. Jake, of course, was dead; Lachlan Collins had decided against pushing for leadership of the organization the day after the rooftop showdown.

He and Amy would both express their goals for the organization, their vision for where it could go.

And then the vote would be called.

One of them would emerge the leader of an organization of people with superpowers, an organization with no regard for international borders, or for the inconsequential laws of those governments. An organization with a United States Senator with a real shot at the Presidency in its pocket.

They would wield untold power, massive amounts of money, all with the title of Director of Special Genetic Research, Greenland Corporation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Brendan said, speaking into the microphone mounted on his podium, clearing his throat. The chatter in the gathered crowd died down. "You all know why we're here, but given the seriousness of the situation, I feel it's necessary to reiterate what's happening here."

Silence reigned supreme in the auditorium.

"Today, you'll be deciding on a new leader, and a direction, for this organization." Brendan intoned, looking into the crowd.

His eyes met Erin's, then Elena's, then Jordan Turley's.

"Amy and I have been unable to agree which one of us could lead better. And, in the interest of fairness, I would like to take this opportunity to open the floor to any other challenges to the leadership."

Silence.

A single hand rose, however.

All eyes fell on that person, and Brendan was surprised to see Erin Eedy, the newest member of the organization, was the one who seemed to be challenging he and Erin.

"Yes?" Brendan asked.

"You're laying a challenge?" Amy asked, her tone neutral, but Brendan thought he detected an undercurrent of incredulity.

"No," Erin said, and Brendan released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "I was just wondering… what happens with people who are absent? Do they get a say?"

"You mean Julian Neave?" Brendan asked, and there was a momentary burst of quiet discussion from the audience, as if they'd just noticed Julian's absence.

Erin nodded.

Brendan bit his bottom lip, considering.

Amy spoke first. "I think it's fair to say 'too bad'. He knew that this was happening. He knew the decision was being made today."

There was nodding, murmurs of assent, and, Brendan noticed with some satisfaction, some shaking heads. Not everyone agreed with Amy's assessment of the situation. He said, "Any more questions?"

When there was no response, he said "Okay then, we'll get started. Amy and I will make our initial points, then we'll take any questions you have. Amy?"

"Thanks," she said, and cleared her throat, "Good morning, everyone. All of us here have abilities. Not all of us, however, come from the United States of America. Kristen McQualter, down the front, is Australian. Elena Moskovski is from Bulgaria. My point is simply this; we can no longer display a simple American arrogance when it comes to international borders and governments. I say this, even though I am American by birth, as a true citizen of the world. Our abilities enable us to transcend international boundaries, both political and geographic, but this should not make us blind to them. I say this, as an American citizen, who has seen the extent of American imperialism. We cannot allow ourselves to become like this nation's current administration. We can't run roughshod over laws and treaties and borders. We have to embrace foreign governments, in order to keep our mission of locating, assisting and protecting people like us, as strong as possible.

"I have evidence, from my recent sojourn to Europe of a French-led effort within the European Union to locate and exploit people with abilities. I met a Greek woman in Athens with the ability of super hearing, and she told me of plans within the EU to create a force of Carriers of the Gene, including one young woman from Amsterdam who is already a part of French Special Forces. By working with EU, we can locate these people, and help them to discover and put their abilities to a constructive purpose within the world. But by following the Greenland model of sneaking around, of forced abductions, as I'm sure Brendan wishes to emulate, we risk antagonizing the nations of Europe. That's something we can't afford, if we one day hope to take our abilities public."

She had uttered the magic 'p' word.

There was stunned silence, punctuated by applause.

Whether or not to go public with abilities had been a major sticking point within the organization since its inception in 1969.

Amy nodded to Brendan. She was done.

"Though Amy's plan has its merits," he began, glancing down at the notes on his podium, "I believe we need to stick with what works. We need to consolidate operations in Los Angeles, and aggressively expand our overseas operations. We can no longer take small, doddering steps. Right now, today, we have seen the threats facing the organisation. We have seen Cathy Chambers, and disloyalty. We can't take this lying down anymore!"

There was applause, and Brendan smiled, casting a sidelong glance at Amy.

The debate raged for another hour, before questions. In the end, despite putting up a valiant effort, that Amy had been beaten. When the vote was taken, it was a landslide, if a small one. Brendan thanked the agents, for the first time as their leader.

Amy also thanked them, and immediately turned to Brendan. "I'd like to take this opportunity to say that I'm leaving."

Her voice, amplified by the microphone on her podium, echoed through the auditorium, leaving the audience silent.

"Uh," Brendan hesitated, mind racing. "Why?"

"I completely disagree with everything you have said here, today, mainly because its the _opposite_ of what I said." She answered, shrugging. "So I respectfully ask that you allow me to stand down."

Brendan glanced into the crowd, all of who were staring open-mouthed at the two of them. His eyes met Erin's, and she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that," Brendan said. "I need your experience." What he didn't add was that he also didn't want to risk alienating her supporters. "_We_ need your experience."

"Yeah, that's not going to happen. I'm leaving." Amy cleared her throat, and stepped away from the podium.

She marched down the aisle, towards the door, past the agents, her supporters and detractors, looking forward. Brendan's eyes swung towards Elena Moskovski. He nodded.

Elena touched Luke Bovill on the arm, and the two stood. Elena nodded to a few people, and then all three of them stood, too. Amy was almost out of the auditorium as the five began to follow.

Brendan started to speak, watching Amy as she walked away, followed by Elena, Luke, Mitchell Schofield, Jacob Dwyer and Kristen McQualter, just trying to distract the rest of the agents. Amy pushed open the door, and slipped into the well-lit corridor, Elena only a few metres behind.

Outside, Amy knew exactly who was following her; she knew their abilities, and she knew why they were following her.

"Amy," came Elena's voice, stern, warning.

Amy glanced over her shoulder.

The five agents stood arrayed in a semi-circle in the corridor.

"Can I help you, Elena?"

"We can't let you leave, Amy." Elena said, shrugging. "Brendan's the new boss, and he's asked you stay. And he asked me to _make_ you stay."

Amy ran her eyes over the quintet, her eyes narrowed. "I am leaving this building now. And if any of you think that I can't destroy you in the blink of an eye, think again." She held out her hand, palm pointed towards the ceiling. Azure mist gathered around her fingertips, and began to rise from her palm, enveloping her entire hand.

Amy saw Kristen shift uncomfortably.

Elena took a deep breath. "This is going to get rough."

Amy swept her hand around, and Mitchell and Jacob stumbled backwards, frost riming their clothes. Elena opened her mouth, and screamed. Really screamed. A wave of sonic energy tore through the hallway, shattering light fixtures. Amy covered her ears as the wave struck her, forcing her to fly through the air. She struck the carpet, hard, but she rolled onto her feet, flinging out her hand again.

Kristen McQualter was a little faster, though.

Throwing out her hands, Kristen generated a forcefield directly in front of Amy. The freezing energy impacted against it, and both died in midair.

Jacob Dwyer was at Amy's side in a flash, and he cocked his fist back. Amy leapt to her feet as he punched, twisting his arm around and pulling him into her chest. She lifted her free hand, and placed it against his throat. The blue energy shimmered back to life on her fingers, and the agents before her slowed, fear flashing across their faces. Amy swallowed, starting to back away, her hand still closed around Jacob's throat.

Elena and Mitchell took a few steps closer, and Amy tightened her grip.

"Take another step, and I'll freeze him." Amy said, warningly.

She could hear movement in the auditorium. A lot of movement. The rest of the agents were about to burst through the door.

She had a few seconds at most.

She shoved Jacob towards Elena. He stumbled into her, knocking her to the ground, and Amy turned to run. Brendan Wunderlich emerged from the wall about three metres before her, gun up, just as the doors burst open.

Amy focused, the cerulean glow bursting forth from her fingers. She put her hands before her, bolting towards Brendan like a runaway train. His eyes widened, and his finger curled around the trigger...

But Amy had already run straight _through_ him.

He spun, only to see Amy round the corner at the end of the corridor.

**

* * *

**

GRACE &** LACHLAN

* * *

**

Grace wasn't sure what woke her up.

Either way, she was up in a shot, her eyes snapping open, her pupils contracting so fast she could feel them shrink. And in that moment, she had no idea where she was, until she glanced at the man sleeping beside her.

She held the crisp white bed sheet to her chest as she stood, and crossed to where she'd tossed her t-shirt the night before. She pulled it over her head, and glanced back at Lachlan Collins, who was dozing on the bed, wearing only pyjama bottoms, leaving his broad chest and sculpted abs bare. Grace turned away, and subconsciously ran fingers through her hair, trying to flatten it.

She went to one of the bedroom's floor-to-ceiling windows, and looked out over Los Angeles. The smog was setting in already.

She slipped from the room, into the penthouse's expansive lounge/sitting room, where she and Lachlan had been training over the past week. They'd gotten far, and Grace was no longer being overwhelmed by her ability. She was getting stronger. Walking into the small, immaculately white kitchen, she reached into an open cabinet and pulled out a tall glass. She put it under the water faucet, and turned on the cold tap.

She took a sip, and almost jumped out of her skin when the cordless phone on the countertop rang loud enough it felt as though the sound would drill into her skull. She snatched it off the counter, setting the glass down, and answered the call.

"Lachlan Collins' residence," she answered dutifully.

"Grace?"

Grace's eyebrows knitted together. What was Brendan doing calling Lachlan? Lachlan had made it clear that he didn't want anything further to do with his mother's organisation. "Brendan. Not to be rude or anything, but what do you want?"

"I just thought Lachlan should know, and you for that matter, that Amy Lamotte has gone AWOL."

"Yeah." Grace said, icily. "So what?"

"She's one of the more powerful agents, and she's free and very, very pissed off."

"Why?" Grace shot back. "What did you do?"

Brendan sighed in exasperation. "Fine. You have a little under three months before the round the world thing. Contact me around that time. Just watch out for Amy."

"No problem. See you in three months, Brendan." She didn't bother to wait for an answer, hanging up. She set the phone down on the counter, and scooped her glass of water up, knocking back half in a single gulp.

"Hey."

She turned, smiling, glass still in hand.

Lachlan stood in the doorway, still only in his pyjama bottoms. "I was thinking, after breakfast, we could give training a miss."

Grace's eyebrows rose. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Lachlan repeated, padding across the floor tiles towards her, folding his arms around her midsection. "I was thinking we could just spend the day together. Maybe go to the Ronald Reagan museum in Simi. We can hate him together."

Grace laughed, and planted a kiss directly on his lips. "Sounds great. We have a little under three months together."

**

* * *

**

REILLY CARROLL  
**LILLIAN, AL

* * *

**Reilly pulled the tiny, crappy rental car up out the front of a tiny diner in a tiny town in the relatively tiny state of Alabama. He smiled to himself as he read the signage above the diner, and he pulled the keys from the ignition. He opened the door, and slid out into the morning. 

The diner's door opened, and a slight, pretty woman appeared, standing on the topmost step, a teasing grin crinkling the corner's of her eyes. She was wearing a waitress' uniform, with a couple of stains on the small, white apron. Her hair hung free about her shoulders, and she winked cheekily.

Reilly smiled as he walked towards her, scooping her into a bear hug as he reached her, pulling her up and around, before finally depositing her on the pavement.

She hugged him back.

"It's good to be back." He said, meaning it.

"It's good to have you back," Alex Chapman replied. And then, leading him by the hand, she pulled him into the diner.

**

* * *

**

LOS ANGELES, CA

* * *

"We're on our way to Seattle," Elena Moskovski's disembodied voice said, filtering from Brendan's phone, set to speaker. "We've traced Amy at least that far."

"Good," Brendan answered, cracking his knuckles. He sat with his feet up on Greenland's desk. "I don't want Jordan and Lachlan on the front lines on this one. You and Luke go in. Call in Lachlan and Jordan only if you need them."

"Got it." Elena responded. She, Lachlan, Jordan and Luke Bovill were somewhere between L.A. and Seattle, where Amy maintained a house. Lachlan's clairvoyance had confirmed she was on her way there. "I'll call you on the other side."

Brendan reached over to cut the connection, just as the door opened. He looked up as he tapped the button. Erin Eedy was walking towards him.

"I just saw the last of our guests off," she said, and sat across from Brendan. "You wanted to see me?"

The sun was setting through the windows behind him. "It's been a long day, huh?"

Erin nodded. "I can't believe what happened this morning."

Brendan took his feet off the desk, and leant forward. "Erin, I was wondering if you'd like to take up a position as my partner. Essentially, my number two."

Erin beamed.

**

* * *

**

SEATTLE, WA

* * *

Amy's throat was dry, her heart was pounding. Lachlan Dickson knew what she looked like, and he'd know where to find her. She should have killed him in LA, before she escaped. Her Seattle house, a split-level faux Victorian, the house she'd grown up in, was dark as she rushed through, collecting whatever she needed. Clothes, files she'd put together over the years; leads she'd never checked up on, contacts she'd never shared with Greenland.

She threw everything into a duffel bag, and was almost at the front door, almost out to freedom, when she heard a rustling at the back door, down the corridor, and through the kitchen.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She spun, dropping the duffel, the freezing energies of her ability gathering around her fingertips.

She felt more than heard Elena Moskovski's scream. The sonic shockwave swept down the hallway, shattering the picture frames on the wall, and hitting Amy square in the chest, Her feet left the ground and she was tossed through the air, slamming, hard, into the polished hardwood floorboards.

She threw out her arms, and the blue light flashed through the halls.

Elena leapt aside, and the energy hit the back door, freezing the wood solid.

Amy spun on her heels, and scooped up her duffel bag, just as a dark shape slipped in through the gap between the door and floor. Amy came to a stop, as Luke Bovill appeared before her, his musculoskeletal structure resolidifying before her very eyes.

A gun appeared in his hand, but Amy lashed out first, her fingers making contact with the gun barrel.

Luke pulled the trigger, but the superheated gases escaping the gun shattered the frozen barrel like glass.

Luke's eyes widened in shock, and Amy punched him, hard, in the chest. Suddenly, Elena was on Amy. She spun, and blocked a punch. Like all agents of the Greenland organisation, both Amy and Elena were both well versed in several martial arts.

Elena lashed out, with a twisting kick. Amy caught her foot, and Elena's boot immediately froze. Amy spun as Luke tried a punch. His fist missed Amy's nose by centimetres.

She returned fire with an elbow to the throat.

Luke began choking immediately, and he dropped to the floor.

Elena leapt in again. Amy put her out of the fight almost immediately. She looped her foot behind Elena's ankles, and slammed an elbow into the back of Elena's neck. There was a hideous popping sound as Elena's ankle joint snapped out of its socket. Elena dropped to the floor, screaming in pain.

Luke, still choking, was back on his feet, lunging for Amy.

She caught his arm, twisted him around, and planted her knee in the small of his back. The gut-wrenching crack of vertebrae snapping free rang through the hallway, and Luke screamed to the rafters, as he fell to knees. His eyes rolled into his head as he fell unconscious to the ground.

Amy stepped over Elena, writhing in pain but still lucid.

Turning to the woman, Amy spoke, ice in her voice. "Luke's alive, but that elbow to the throat will start to cause swelling in the next five to ten minutes. After that, he has about five more minutes before he suffocates. The back injury will leave him out of action for three months. You tell Brendan that if he sends anyone after me, they'll not be coming back."

Elena spat blood, and looked up at Amy, eyes smouldering with rage. "I _will_ kill you!"

Amy grabbed the duffel, swinging it over her shoulder. "Bring it on."

With that, she was gone.

**

* * *

**

THREE MONTHS LATER**

* * *

**

LOS ANGELES, CA

* * *

"All passengers for flight TT71 to Orange Beach, Alabama, please commence boarding."

Alex Chapman smiled sadly, and placed her hand in Reilly's as the two walked slowly towards her gate. With a duffel slung over her shoulder, and a tan from almost two months spent at the beach, Alex was more than ready to go home, even if it meant leaving Reilly.

They arrived at the gate, to see a line of people presenting their boarding passes to the flight attendants, and being shown onboard.

"I'll see you soon," Reilly said, pulling Alex into a hug. "Stay safe."

She smiled again, and they kissed, as they had a thousand times during their time together, and she got in the line.

Reilly watched as she flashed her boarding pass, as it was fed into the machine, and as she walked towards the door leading towards the plane. She turned back, and waved.

"I love you," she said, and winked, disappearing into the plane.

Reilly smiled all the way to the international terminal.

* * *

Grace expertly manoeuvred her massive suitcase to the elevator doors outside Lachlan's penthouse, and coughed into her hand, trying to keep from crying. He stood in the doorway, bare-chested and as good-looking as ever. She smiled sadly, and he stepped out, holding out his hand. He took it and pulled her into a bear hug. Her hand curved beneath his chin, and she pulled him in, pressing her lips to his in a long, passionate kiss.

It seemed like eternity before they parted, and even that wasn't long enough.

"I'll miss you," Lachlan said, looping his arms around her, holding her tight.

"I'll miss you, too." Grace answered, and planted another kiss on his cheek. "It's been a great few months."

Lachlan nodded. "You've progressed wonderfully."

"All thanks to you," she said, and hugged him. They let go, and she turned as the elevator doors slid open. She picked up her suitcase, dragging it across the floor, into the elevator. "I guess I'll see you around."

The elevator doors began to close, and Grace felt hot tears slide down her cheeks. She turned away from the doors, expecting the elevator to start descending at any second.

Something stopped them from closing, however.

She turned back, to see Lachlan holding them open.

He stepped into the elevator car, and they embraced, wrapping their arms around each other, their lips meeting once again. Electricity blazed from Lachlan, blue bolts lighting up the tiny, plush elevator car. Grace barely felt them, locked as she was in his arms, in his embrace, and in his love.

The doors finally closed.

* * *

In his office, Brendan read over the latest reports on Amy's whereabouts. She had simply disappeared, and Lachlan Dickson had been unable to locate her, even with the use of his ability. Sightings had been logged from South East Asia to right there in Los Angeles. None, however, had been confirmed.

"Brendan?" Brendan looked up, to see his number two, Erin Eedy, holding a cordless phone. "Reilly's on the line for you."

Brendan nodded, setting aside the file, and took the phone from Erin. "Hello?"

"Brendan, hey."

"Reilly, what can I do for you?"

"I'm at LAX, just ready to set off for Africa. Are you meeting Grace and myself here before we leave?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely," Brendan said, nodding to himself. "I'll be there in a half hour."

* * *

"I'm so glad we're doing this." Grace said, and she squeezed Reilly's hand. "How was your three months?"

Reilly couldn't help but smile. "It was good. Great. Amazing."

Grace smiled back.

The two stood in the lobby of the LAX international terminal, Brendan Wunderlich and Erin Eedy standing nearby. Their ticket to London had been paid for, and their connecting flight to Ghana had also been covered.

All that was left to do now was check their baggage and get through security.

After that, they'd be boarding the plane, and they'd be on the first steps of their round the world journey.

Reilly shook Brendan's hand, then Erin's, and the two joined the line to the check-in counters.

* * *

Amy reclined in the First Class plane seat, belted into place. The pilot was going through pre-flight checks and the stewardesses were doing the 'in the event of emergencies' talk, but she was too absorbed in the file on her knees to care. She'd been on the run across the United States for eleven weeks, and now, finally, she was convinced she'd thrown off pursuit. She was going overseas.

Of all the data she'd collected over the years, she had enough to locate any of two dozen people, around the globe, with the potential to carry a superpower.

The file on her knees was one of three she'd taken aboard the flight. The name on the front was _L Rietdijk_. The other files, which sat beneath the one she was reading, were embossed with the names _H Burak_ and _V Tagaroulios_.

And the first file indicated that its subject was living large in Paris, France.

That was Amy's destination…

**

* * *

**

THE PRESENT DAY

* * *

Reilly Carroll yawned and stretched as he stepped into the crowded gate lounge in Mumbai's sprawling airport. Dodging the evangelical Christians, waving pamphlets in his face, and the Hare Krishnas pounding tambourines, he slumped into one of the few empty seats, saving the one beside him.

Grace slumped into it, as exhausted as he was from the double flight, first from Accra to Ethiopia, and then from Ethiopia to Mumbai.

Priscilla Cardwell, however, was as relaxed as anyone could be, and The Ghanaian, who had, as always, never left their side in their continent-hopping journey, was standing beside her, serenely still.

The fifth, and newest member of their group, squeezed her way past a heavy-set American gentleman and an Indian woman wrapped in a shawl. She was a petite Chinese woman, with a rather special gift. She could understand, and communicate in, any language.

They'd met her in Ethiopia, and she'd joined them, under orders from her boss. Brendan Wunderlich.

"So," Tracey Ho said. "When are we going to find Pariza Khale?"

* * *

"So where do we meet this friend of yours?"

"She'll be around, somewhere," Amy Lamotte answered, as she and Louisa Rietdijk stepped out in the brilliant sunshine out the front of the Athens International Airport, fresh off a flight from Tangier.

Before them stretched the parking lot of the airport, and beyond that the capital of Greece. And somewhere out there, was Amy's old friend, Victoria Tagaroulios.

* * *

It was night time, and freezing cold, when Erin Eedy and Kristen McQualter pulled up in front of the imposing office front of the building that housed the company who had leased the warehouse in Berlin, the one that had almost been their grave when a hidden bomb had been set off.

Erin had managed to fly the two of them to safety, Kristen generating a forcefield to keep them safe from the flames.

They now stood in Munich, at the foot of the five story building.

"This is it?" Kristen asked.

Erin nodded. "This is Blue Horizon, International's German office."

* * *

Once again, Elena Moskovski sat across from Brendan. He glanced at his computer screen, at the drawing of Lauren, lying dead in his arms. He glanced at Elena and said "How is security in Monterey?"

"I have four non-Carriers guarding the beach house. Luke and I are currently keeping up surveillance on Sophie."

Brendan nodded. "Good. I want you and Luke out of there, however."

"What?" Elena said, disbelieving. "I thought this was top-priority."

"It was," Brendan said. "Everything's changed, however. I want you two in Simi Valley. I have intelligence telling me that Amy is coming back, and that she's coming after me."


End file.
